


Don't Turn on the Light

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: The Autumn Effect [13]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Babysitting, Black Comedy, Gen, Halloween, Hitchhiking, Horror, One Shot Collection, Urban Legends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-18 18:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 31,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8171891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Gotham is prime breeding ground for urban legends...





	1. House Calls

**Author's Note:**

> Well, well. Here we are again. I confess, I had a few different ideas for this year before settling on this one. I have done my best to stick to older urban legends-internet tales are all very well, but Scarecrow's a purist.
> 
> Gotham seems to be caught in a time warp-smart phones coexsist with five-cent-newspapers, so the home phone is not so very unlikely. Much to Dr. Crane's glee...

            Sue Lynnmann's finger hovers over the keypad on the microwave. Popcorn, popcorn...ah! Popcorn.

            "Three minutes, guys!"

            A chorus of 'yayyy!' comes from the other room and she smiles. They're good kids. Not like the little horrors next door. _Those_ kids, damn-there's only three, but they destroy enough for ten.

            But these ones are good. And that's why they get to stay up a half-hour later and have popcorn.

            _BEEEP!_

She pours it into three bowls and makes her way back to the living room, tongue between her teeth.

            "Sue, Sue! Look what I can do!"

            Steve, the younger, eases himself into a wobbly headstand and his face promptly goes red. Jessica makes a face.

            "Knock it off, Stevie, that's gross!"

            "Is not, it's cool!"

            "Guys, guys, relax. Popcorn's ready."

            Steve falls down and both of them leap onto the sofa. Sue hands out the popcorn and picks up the remote.

            "Remember-after _Goosebumps_ , it's straight to bed, no arguing."

* * *

            Sue shuts the door to Jessica's room and tiptoes back downstairs. The Smiths should be back in another hour or so, give or take, so she can just watch TV until then.

            She's flipping around when the phone rings. She lunges for it so it doesn't draw them back downstairs and wonders if the Smiths are going to be late.

            "Hello?"

            **_"Have you checked the children?"_**

"Who is this?"

            _Click._

            Creep. That's the thing with Gotham, it's crawling with freaks and sickos. All the same, she sneaks up, cracks both doors, and is satisfied to see that Steve and Jessica are asleep. Of course they are. Probably someone from school called. Probably Matt-she'll give him an earful on Monday morning.

            She goes back downstairs and resumes flipping. Stupid Matt. He thinks he's sooo funny. Ugh! _Boys._

The phone rings again and she glares at it. Seriously? He's gonna keep doing this? That asshole, god dammit-

            "Matt, knock it off."

            **_"You really should check the children."_**

"This isn't funny, stop calling-"

            _Click._

Whatever.

            She finally settles on a James Bond movie-Daniel Craig, can't complain about that!-and is just dozing off when the phone rings again.

            "Hello?"

            **_"Cross over, children, all are welcome!"*_**

"Matt, I swear to god-"

            _Click._

Fine. You know what? If he calls again, she's calling the police. See how he likes it. It's not her fault-he kept calling and freaking her out! That'll teach him to scare her like that, goddamn asshole...razzafrazza...

            Brr. It's cold in here. She goes upstairs, adjusts the thermostat-just a few degrees, she's allowed-and goes back to Bond.

            Within ten minutes, it's cold again and she decides to mention to the Smiths that the thermostat is wonky. For now, though, she pulls a throw blanket up to her shoulders and settles in. They should be home in like, half an hour or so. Which is good, because she's starting to get a little creeped out. She can't help it-being in a strange house after dark has always creeped her out. Made sleepovers a difficulty as a kid, that's for sure.

            _RIIIIING! RIIIIING!_

That's it! Release the kraken! Or at least the police.

            "Look, this isn't funny-"

            This time there's just horrible laughter before the man hangs up. She hits 911.

            "Someone keeps calling here." she says. "It's probably just a prank or something, but he keeps telling me to check the children and I'm...could you do something?"

            "If he calls again, we'll trace it."

            Great.

            Better than nothing, she guesses.

            She can't concentrate now and she turns the TV off. _Christ_ , it's cold! Maybe she should just turn it off...

            She goes upstairs, shuts it off, and peeps in. Just to be sure. As expected, they're sleeping. Nice and normal.

            She goes back downstairs in time for the phone to ring and this time she grabs it, feeling ridiculously smug about the whole thing.

            "I called the cops on you, asshole."

            More maniacal laughter, but he doesn't hang up this time.

            **_"You really should have checked on the children, Sue."_**

She hangs up, heart pounding, and the phone rings.

            "Hello?"

            "Get the kids and get out." The operator is breathless. "A unit is on its way."

            "Huh?"

            _"The calls are coming from inside the house."_

The room sways. She drops the phone-did she hang up? It doesn't matter-and sprints upstairs, feeling as though she's running through water.

            Steve's door is ajar and she hopes and prays he's getting a glass of water. He's still in bed. Did she not shut the door?

            She goes to him, trying to be quiet.

            "Steve?" she whispers. "Steve, kiddo, we gotta go."

            She shakes him and he rolls over. She screams.

            He's gagged and trussed up like a turkey, but he's not asleep-his eyes are bulging out of his sockets and he looks _terrified_. The gag is wet and a bit of blood is dripping down his chin.

            "Oh, god, oh god-"

            **_"I told you so."_**

            That voice, that horrible, raspy, sing-song voice-

            She turns, hand scrambling for anything to use as a weapon. Standing in the doorway is a man she's seen on the news-one of Gotham's own dark children. The Scarecrow.

            "Stay away!"

            **_"Stay away!"_** he mocks. **_"Have you seen little Jessica?"_**

"The police are on their way." she warns. "You won't get away with anything."

            **_"I already have."_** He reaches down and drags Jessica into view. Like her brother, she's bound and gagged and out of her mind with fright. **_"Afraid yet?"_**

She hits upon the lamp and hefts it up, ripping the cord out of the wall.

            "Get away!"

            He laughs at her and she hurls the lamp. It hits him in the shoulder and shuts him up, but before she can move he's crossed the room and grasped her wrists.

            **_"You'll regret that."_**

The last thing she sees is a fine, white mist rising from his sleeve. Then the world becomes a nightmare.

THE END

 

 

*Someone's been watching too much _Poltergeist_ (the original, not that shoddy excuse for a remake).

**  
**

****


	2. Footsteps in the Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most urban legends seem to have a female as the 'protagonist'. I'm equal-opportunity murder, m'self, so that won't always be the case here.

 

            Sam Watts stretches and flops back on the couch. Mom's gone for the weekend and he's got the house to himself.

            It's nice. It's fucking cold outside, but it's nice to sit with a spiked hot chocolate and a book and watch the snow fall.

            His phone dings and he picks it up. Warning from Gotham PD-Arkham breakout. Eh, like that's anything new. This is Gotham, home of the crazies and shit security.

            Sam drops his phone back on the table and yawns. He's bored. Nobody wants to drive in snow, so he's stuck here, being bored. Maybe he'll go to bed...

            In a few minutes. Maybe. If he's not too lazy to get up.

            He sits there for a little longer, nose in his book, until it occurs to him that if he doesn't pee right now, he will explode. Faced with that sort of choice, he gets up and heads upstairs.

            When he comes back down, he figures he may as well flick off all the lights and go to bed. He's just hitting a smaller lamp when he catches sight of someone standing outside. What the hell? What kind of weirdo-shit. Oh, _shit._ Arkham.

            He yanks the curtains shut and stands there for a few seconds, breathing hard. Police, he needs to call the police...unless it's a neighbor and he freaked out over nothing. Mom will kill him if he calls the police over _that_.

            Sam cracks the curtains open. Whoever it was, they're gone now. Probably was the neighbor, then-maybe their wi-fi's out or something.

            He's just gonna go to bed now. That was a little bit embarrassing. He'll be keeping that to himself, thank you very much.

            He turns around and freezes before turning back and cracking the curtains again.

            _There are no footprints in the snow._

His eyes widen and he scrambles for his phone only to find a thin, grasping hand seizing it.

            "Ah-ah-ah! I don't think so." The man smiles and takes the phone. "I must admit, I wasn't planning on stopping here, but it's so _very_ cold outside."

            "Look, man-"

            "Be quiet."

            He _looks_ sane, but the Arkham uniform is a dead giveaway. Sam puts his hands above his head, hoping he's a 'reasonable' crazy-they say Cobblepot can be reasoned with. Sometimes.

            Why couldn't it have been Catwoman?*

            "What in the world shall I do with you?" the man muses, tossing the phone from hand to hand. "You are an unexpected liability."

            "I won't say nothin', I _swear_ -"

            "Anything." he snaps suddenly. "You won't say _anything_. Kids today, _no_ respect for the rules of grammar..."

            "I'm sorry I'm sorry pleasedon'thurtme..."

            The man moves and Sam catches the tag on the uniform. _Crane._ Crane, Crane, which one is...oh. Oh, shit on a shingle.

            "I suggest you cease blabbering before I lose my patience with you, child."

            He claps his mouth shut and hopes the police show up.

            "Now, let me see..."

            **_"Free subject, Jonny-boy!"_**

"Shut up, Scarecrow."

            **_"C'mon!"_**

"Not now."

            Jeeze. Sam's never seen someone talking to themselves before-not like that-and it's _creepy_.

            He risks inching away, eyes searching the room for something to use as a weapon, and Crane hurls the lamp at him. He ducks. It shatters on the floor and the room is bathed in blackness.

            **_"Don't. Move."_**

"Okay. Okay. Not moving."

            He can't see anything, and that's when he gets his idea. Crane doesn't know his way around in here. Sam? He's lived here for fifteen years, he knows where shit is. Even if he does trip over the same end table every day.

            He steps back, trying his hardest not to make a sound. Nothing happens and he keeps moving.

_End table’s two steps back, I need to go left and make a break for the stairs-_

He can hear Crane breathing, soft and even, and he takes another step and inches to the left to avoid that stupid table. Just to be sure, he puts his hand back. Air. He’s good.

He keeps moving until he bumps his foot against the lowest stair. Okay. Up, gently, gently-

_Click._

He stops dead and stares at Crane, whose finger is still on the light switch.

“Tsk, tsk. What an ill-mannered child you are. Or perhaps simply very stupid…” He starts across the room, avoiding the shattered lamp. “What a shame.”

**_“Why’d you turn on the light?”_ **

“Shut _up_.”

**_“I had it under control-”_ **

Sam takes advantage of Crane’s temporary distraction and bolts upstairs, taking them two at a time. Downstairs, there’s swearing and the strange, raspy voice calls upstairs, **_“Run and run as fast as you can, I WILL catch you, little gingerbread man!”_**

Fuck that shit.

He barricades himself in his mom’s room and realizes too late that there’s no way down-there’s bars on the bedroom windows, to keep out the crazies.

_Oh, the irony…_

He has no phone, no way out, and no way to defend himself.

_Should’ve stayed in Karate when I was eight!_

It’s eerily silent out there and he’s tempted to peek, in case Crane’s occupied in another room, but he’s not that willing to take down his barricade.

Although…

If he’s very quiet, he can maybe get the drop on him. He’s not the athletic type-what can he say, Mom’s a great baker-but he could probably knock Crane out and run if he was careful.

He grabs the bat Mom keeps in her room for emergencies and begins, as quietly as possible, to take his barricade down. There’s still no sounds in the hall. Maybe Crane didn’t bother coming up.

After waiting another minute to be absolutely _sure_ , he cracks the door.

The hallway is still dark. Crane is nowhere to be seen and Sam thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’ll get out of this with his mind intact.

He inches out, bat gripped tightly in his hand, and checks the doors. All closed. All right. He’ll just go downstairs and run like hell for the neighbor’s house.

“Turn down for WHAT-”

Fuck his life.

He turns. Crane is standing not five feet away, looking at the phone in his hand with no small amount of disdain.

“Modern music…” He sighs and shakes his head. “Bless your heart.”**

“Huh?”

“Here you are, at least. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to wait long.”

“Get back!” He flails a little with the bat and Crane laughs at him. “Get back, fucker!”

“You really should learn how to use that.” Crane says mildly. “This isn’t _The Shining,_ you’re not going to get a lucky hit when you’re gripping it that far down.”

Good point.

He adjusts it and swings again. He misses-barely-and goes to Plan B.

Sam hurls the bat and runs, practically leaping down the stairs. Crane does not give chase.

It’s freezing outside and his slippers are no defense from the snow, but he makes it through all the same and starts banging on Mrs. McClean’s door, screaming for help.

By the time the police come, ten minutes later, the only sign of Crane is the broken lamp and the missing emergency key from under the rug.

THE END

 

*Arkham keeps Selina because nobody else wants to go through the bother of signing her in and signing her out two days later-too much paperwork. At least Arkham can keep her for a month or so.

**It isn’t often that his Southern roots come into play, but when they do, they’re in the form of insults. Ouch.

 


	3. Beware of Hitchhiking Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotham attracts idiots. Don’t believe me? There’s episodes of B:TAS in which Scarecrow managed not only to escape (okay, it happens), but ALSO:  
> A) the guard on duty tried to hide it (wow, man, he’s not in here for kicking puppies, he’s in here for being a nut that caused mass insanity and probably death)  
> B) the doctor didn’t notice. Okay, there was a dummy on a rocker, but still. Either he didn’t come down at all (that’s bad) or he didn’t notice that ‘Scarecrow’ hadn’t moved like, at all (also bad).  
> Oh, Gotham. No wonder so many people die. Y’all are dumb.

Ian Shapiro isn’t the sort to pick up hitchhikers. Not usually. Not in Gotham, anyway. Or anywhere near Gotham.

But…

Well…

That’s a girl. And a _small_ girl at that.

He stops, hoping to god she’s not the world’s tiniest murderer, and rolls down the window.

“Need a ride?”

“Please!”

That white dress of hers is nearly soaked through, leaving practically nothing to the imagination. He hands her his jacket.

“Thank you so much…I’ve been walking all day, my car broke down and-” She sneezes. “Ugh…this is not my day.”

“I can take you to a mechanic.” he offers, trying not to look at the clingy white fabric on her thighs. “Or a hotel, or whatever.”

“Just take me home.” she groans. “I’ll get the bloody car tomorrow.”

“Where do you live?”

She gives him an address he doesn’t recognize at all and slumps back in the seat, shivering.

He wants to make small talk, but she looks worn out and he keeps his mouth shut.

The address turns out to be far as shit-all the way on the other side of town, in the Narrows (or what’s left of them)-and he has to stop for gas. While he’s there, he gets a candy bar for his passenger.

“Thanks.”

“Look, are you sure I can’t take you to a mechanic? Gotham’s…Gotham’s weird and creepy and your car might not be there later.”

“It will.” She smiles at him, wide and confident. “Stop here. You don’t live here, the locals will see your car and mob you.”

“I can walk you-”

“I live here, I’m fine.” She leans over and pecks his cheek. “Thank you, though. You’ve been very sweet.”

She hops out and disappears down a darkened road. He’s about to leave when he spots the candy bar.

The streets can’t be that bad. He’s been to Mexico before anyway, he knows how to deal with pushy pedestrians.*

_4563 W Massengale…there!_

There’s no sign of her, which is weird, but maybe she took a shortcut. Or isn’t here yet, in which case he can wait. He knocks.

The door doesn’t open for some time, and when it does, it’s not the girl. It’s a tall, thin man who looks harried and exhausted and in no mood for visitors.

“I-I’m looking for a girl…I gave her a ride home, but she forgot this.” He waves the candy bar in the air. “This is the address she gave me-”

“What girl?”

He shrugs.

“Small, about yay high, wearing a white dress-look man, if she doesn’t live here, it’s not my fault, this is what she said-”

“British?” the man demands. “You picked her up some ways from here?”

“Yeah…”

He sways and leans against the wall.

“That’s Kitty.”

Okay.

“Um…sure, maybe, she didn’t tell me her name…”

“She’s been dead for two years. Car accident.”

O-kay, then. Whatever.

“Sure…look, I’m just gonna go…”

The man isn’t listening to him anymore, it’s obvious.

“You’re not the first that’s knocked, every year on the anniversary someone comes…”

Yeah, the guy’s obviously not right in the head, he’s going home, she wasn’t that hot.

“Hey!”

That’s-

**WHAM!**

He goes down, pain lancing through the side of his right knee and finds himself facing a metal pipe. The man sounds choked with _laughter_ when he says, “Sometimes I can still hear her voice…”

What the actual hell-

**WHACK!**

This time his kneecap goes backwards in a way that it’s _really_ not supposed to go, and he lunges for the pipe through the haze of pain.

“Stop telling people I’m dead.” She sounds cross. “God.”

“What took you?”

“There’s no Good Samaritans to be had-leggo!”

She rips the pipe from his hands and swings again, this time hitting his elbow. There’s a **pop** and white-hot, blinding pain takes over. He feels, vaguely, spidery hands wrapping around his ankle and then he’s being pulled, the elongation of his injured knee tearing screams of pain from his throat.

“Want me to shut him up?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Get his other leg, though, he’s heavy.”

He claws for the doorstep with his uninjured arm, desperate to get away, but he can’t hold on and he’s pulled into a dark hallway.

As he passes a small key-table, he catches sight of a burlap mask with a rope hanging down.

“Please! Please! I won’t say anything, I won’t-”

“Now shut him up, that’s annoying.”

**WHAM!**

THE END

 

 

 

*Particularly in the parts I’ve been to, the local kids will mob you/your car trying to sell you stuff. They could teach mall kiosk people an awful lot, lemme tell you.


	4. Trick or Treat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I will not be doing ‘Humans Can Lick, Too’. I tried. I did. But when I brought it up, Dr. Crane sort of-
> 
> Are you insane? Do you have any IDEA how many germs are on the average human hand? Furthermore, the hand-washing habits of Americans are deplorable, there is no way in HELL that I am-
> 
> Yeah. That. Sorry. This takes place rather early in their criminal career. (I really should make a timeline one day…)

Jonathan Crane likes Halloween less than one would suppose.

That’s not strictly true. He likes the _idea_ of it-the idea of being scared (quite literally, perhaps) to death, or at the very least losing a few nights’ sleep.

This newfangled iteration of cutesy skeletons and Casper the Friendly Ghost, on the other hand…

He scowls at an article titled ‘Gotham Elementary Presents its Twelfth Annual Fall Festival!’ and takes a long drink of coffee from a yellow mug with a devil face on it.

(Kitty thinks she’s funny. He disagrees, but the mug is large and holds much coffee. It’ll do.)

Humph. This rash of ‘think of the children!’ has made Halloween incredibly boring. Really, the damn children will be fine. Have this people ever considered ‘parenting’? As in, ‘not letting little Jimmy stay up past his bedtime watching rated R movies’? Of course not, that’s too much work. Heathens, ruining things for the rest of them, for heaven’s sake…

Grumbling darkly, he scrolls away from the idiotic article and takes another sip. Or tries to-the mug is now empty. Damn.

“Anything interesting, love?” Kitty ruffles his hair and he swats half-heartedly at her and misses. Humph.

“Halloween has been ruined by lazy parenting.”

“And the fact that for three years running, you’ve done something horrible to the general populace.” He ignores that and resumes scrolling. ‘Pumpkin Spice Recipes’…blech…‘Costumes for Baby’s First Halloween!’…absolutely not… “We need to feed the subject. D’you want any more of the potato soup?”

What? No!

“Give him a slice of bread, he’s fine.”

“Jonathan, he hasn’t eaten in like, two days.”

“He’s a nomophobe*, he should be more interesting if he wants food.”

“God…”

Too bad. He laid claim to the last of the soup yesterday.

‘This Year’s Sexiest Halloween Costumes’…humph. If he sees any more idiots running around dressed as ‘Sexy Scarecrow’, he will have to take drastic action.

“Yeah, one’s enough.”

“Huh?”

“You’re talking to yourself again.” She drops a kiss on his head. “Anything interesting?”

“Halloween depresses me.”

“Mm.”

“They’ve turned it into some sort of Christmas with pumpkins. This is terrible.”

“Don’t be dramatic…”

“Look at this! Look at this! ‘Candy Corn Witch’. What is that? Really, what? Enlighten me! And don’t even ask about the Batman costumes.”

“Really, Jonathan, aren’t you overreacting a little?”

“No.” he seethes. “I most certainly am not. These _imbeciles_ have gone out of their way to make Halloween as ‘child friendly’ as possible-”

“Pretty sure that witch costume is not child friendly-”

“Have you _seen_ the little brats lately?”

“Fair point. But really, it’s Gotham, they had to take precautions-”

“They should have taken better ones. Or not celebrated at all, if this is what they wanted.”

She sighs. He knows that sigh. It’s the annoyed one that she uses when she thinks he’s being a Drama Queen™.

“Kitty…” He gestures at the laptop screen. _“Look.”_

“I see, love.” She kisses his cheek. “You’re still being dramatic. No more coffee for you, your hands are shaking.”

Humph. Hypocrite.

She leaves and he resumes his grumbling.

At least, until he scrolls down and comes upon an article titled ‘Common Halloween Concerns (That You Don’t Have to Worry About)’. Hmm.

He clicks it. The first thing on the list? Poison candy-apparently that one got started due to a disguised murder.

Well, well. Isn’t that interesting.

* * *

He draws a syringe out from the seam of a candy bar wrapper. There. Several full-sized candy bars, each filled to the brim with enough toxin to drive a two hundred-pound man irrevocably insane. A fifty-pound kid? (Well, today’s kids are a bit more than fifty…) This is going to be interesting.

He sets the syringe aside and looks critically at the candy. As far as he can tell, there’s no signs of it having been tampered with-no tears, no odd crinkles, no nothing. As well there shouldn’t be-this isn’t one of the oversized, fear-inducing things he uses for his glove. _This_ is a work of art, thin enough to shatter if handled too roughly, but also thin enough to conceal in his mask or other possessions, as a nasty surprise for anyone playing with things they shouldn’t.

He’s just waiting for Edward to try and reorganize his sock drawer again. The socks were fine the way they were, there was no need to organize by _color_. What maniac organizes their _socks?_

Edward needs help.

Jonathan gathers the candy into a hideously cheesy bowl. Said bowl has a hand that ‘grabs’ when the motion sensor is set off and hisses, ‘Happy Halloween!’ He hates it. It’s tacky and not at all frightening. If it weren’t for the habitual roughness of children, he would tape the little needles to the hand, give the bowl a bit of extra…excitement. But there’s too much of a risk of snatching hands and rubber monster-hand gloves, so this will have to do.

Hopefully he won’t have to wait too long for them to eat the candy, but he’s patient. Granny _was_ successful in teaching him that, with those long hours in the chapel.

All set. The bowl has batteries, the candy is prepped, and there’s a skeleton on the porch. (So it’s real. Nobody needs to know.) But it feels like he’s forgetting something…ah!

“Kitty?” he calls. “Where do they sell pumpkins?”

* * *

By nine, he’s about out of candy. Excellent. At least thirty of the little brats (factoring in allergies, but their parents might eat it!) are at this very moment going home with, as one of them said outright, ‘the best thing I’ve gotten tonight!’

Yes.

He’s sitting near the door, alternating between watching a rerun of _Hannibal_ (and feeling a little hungry-people or not, that looks really good) and listening for the doorbell. He’s only got a few more bars and then he can turn off the light and go watch the news.

“How long do they stay out?”

“Why should I know?”

Because women supposedly know everything, but he’s pretty sure saying that is a Bad Idea.

Ah, and there’s the supremely irritating sound of little (or not so little, these sound older) voices giggling and calling, “Trick or treat!”

 _Trick_ , he thinks viciously, _the ultimate trick_ , but when he opens the door it’s with a barely-strained smile and a cheery, “Treat!”

He has no idea…wait.

Wait one minute.

**_Dude, that’s so ghetto._ **

_Maybe it’s a scary Wizard of Oz?_

**_Pretty sure that’s a spray can._ **

_Someone will pay dearly for this._

“What are you supposed to be?” He hopes his disdain isn’t too obvious. The boy-at least, he thinks it’s a boy, but it’s hard to tell with the mask-does not answer. Instead, the girl-what is _she_ supposed to be?-grabs his arm and grins.

“The Scarecrow and his girlfriend.”

What.

Oh, that cannot be allowed to stand. Absolutely not. If there’s one unspoken rule in Gotham, it’s no. Copycats. EVER. Not even on Halloween.

(Also, it’s in very poor taste. Teenagers…)

He’s just reaching for the emergency canister (Batman could show up at any time, after all), when Kitty appears at his shoulder.

“Who’s at the…hullo.”

“Hi!” At least the Scarecrow Imposter is silent-judging by his posture, he thinks this is very stupid. As he should. Not that such feelings will spare him.

“And who are you supposed to be?”

“The Scarecrow and his girlfriend. My friends wanted us to go as the Joker and Harley Quinn, but her costume’s _cold_ and I didn’t wanna dye my hair.”

He’s hoping for backup. What he gets is cold, hard betrayal.

“That’s so sweet!” What? “We’re so going as that next year.”

Oh, she’s hilarious. Really, look at him laughing. Ha-ha.

**_You’re on your own now, man. Bummer._ **

“It’s certainly original.” To say the least. “Here you are. Happy Halloween.”

And before the annoying girl can say anything else, he tips the last of the bowl into their (shared, what the hell?) pillowcase and shuts the door. Once they’re gone, Kitty flips off the porch light and pokes him in the ribs.

“You really should be nicer, love.”

“Imposters. I was going to have subjects again, Kitty! Real ones, hopefully with better fears than nomophobia!”

“Oh yes, kidnapping teenagers is a good way to avoid Batman.” she snarks. “Anyways, I came to tell you that the news is about to start.”

Oh.

“Any emergency broadcasts?”

“Not yet. C’mon, though, I think there’s a bag of popcorn somewhere around here.”

Mm. Popcorn.

Hopefully somebody’s got a camera running when the Imposters go down screaming.

THE END

 

 

 

* _Nomophobia-fear of being out of mobile phone contact. Pathetic. Seek help if this is you-I’m sure I can squeeze you in…_


	5. The Roommate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Oh, Dr. Crane. You’re such a dick. That’s going to come back to haunt you one of these days…but not today, because I’m too lazy to call Batman.  
> Some inspiration comes from the second 'Scary Stories' to Tell in the Dark, ‘cuz that was creepy as fuck.

Susannah Graves didn’t mean to be back so late. She’d been studying, and then this cute girl had started talking to her, and before she knew it, the clock was striking midnight. Whoopsie-daisy.

Jane’s such a stickler too, she thinks unhappily. She’ll be up, because she’s a forty-something mom in a twenty-something’s body, and she’ll be _disappointed_ and maybe she’ll even _lecture_.

Yeah, Susannah…hates her roommate. A little. They’re in _college_ , you’re _supposed_ to have fun! With the amount of money these fuckers bleed out of them, they may as well. Jane’s nice, but she’s morality and virtue personified. She completes her essays _early_. On _purpose_.

Needless to say, Susannah is not looking forward to sneaking into their room tonight.

To make things worse, she’s a little bit drunk (cute girl had smuggled in beer at one point…) and as a result it’s a real bitch getting her key out and finding the lock without making _too_ much noise.

She fails. Badly. Drops the key twice-holy fuck that’s LOUD-and spends two minutes too many trying to get it into the lock before realizing that it’s upside-down.

Someone is smiling upon her tonight, because despite it all, Jane’s dead asleep. Susannah hangs her purse and tiptoes into the bathroom to brush her teeth (morning-after beer breath is straight nasty). She’s just thinking that she needs a new toothbrush when she hears an odd **dripping** in the other room.

“Jane?” she stage-whispers. “Jane, what’s that?”

Jane does not answer. Dammit.

**Drip-drip-drip.**

Huh. Maybe her water bottle’s leaking?

She creeps out and feels her way towards her bedside table. Just as she reaches it, the dripping stops. Huh.

Whatever. She’s tired and-wonder of glorious wonders!-Jane is still asleep. Maybe there is a God.

* * *

Susannah is roused from her drunken slumber by whistling. More specifically, Jane-fucking passive aggressive Jane!-is whistling ‘Oh! Susannah’. At like, two in the goddamn morning.

“Shut up, Jane.” she groans. “M’sleeping.”

The whistling stops abruptly and Susannah rolls over. She’s just dozing off when Jane starts up again. This time she fumbles for a slipper, finds one, and throws it. She misses Jane and hits the wall with a satisfying _smack_ and hisses, “If you don’t shut up, I’ll come over there and sew your lips shut!”

Instant silence. Good. For all Jane’s bitching about ‘behaving like responsible adults’, she can be remarkably childish.

Susannah yawns and snuggles under her cheap Wal-Mart sheets. Sleepy time. Thank god there’s no class in the morning…

**Drip-drip-drip.**

What _now?_ Really, what now? Is it the sink? It’s probably the cheap-ass sink. Considering this school is determined to throw them all into debt for the rest of their lives, they spend exactly none of their money on, say, _fixing_ anything. The elevator’s been broken since she started here. College is such a scam…

With a surge of Insomniac’s Rage, she flings the covers back and marches to the bathroom. The sink is dry and there’s no strange puddle near the toilet. What the hell?

Whatever. Fuck it. She’s going to sleep if she has to sell her soul to do it.

She stalks back to bed and crashes out cold, asleep before she can even arrange her covers properly.

* * *

Susannah is awakened half an hour-half an hour! Cruel world-later by Jane. Whistling. Again.

That. Is. **It**. Jane is going to shut her little mouth or **else**.

She turns on her lamp, flings herself out of bed, and stomps over to Jane’s. Jane is buried in blankets, the top of her head just showing. Susannah is not fooled.

“Wake up.”

She kicks the bed, rips the blankets back, and screams.

Jane is lying in her bed, fingers shoved so far down her own throat that she’s ripped her cheeks in some sort of horrible Glasgow grin. As Susannah stares in horror, a half-congealed drop of blood slides lazily down her elbow to fall with a soft **drip**.

“Oh my god oh my god-”

And then the whistling starts again. It’s coming from _underneath the bed._

She moves to run for the door and like lightning, two pale hands shoot out like the boogeyman’s and grab her ankles, yanking her off her feet.

The hands release her and there’s movement-a rough scratching, like a cockroach-from the darkness under the bed. As she crawls away, hoping to get some room to get up, the scratching grows louder and long, skinny legs emerge from the shadows. They are followed swiftly by an equally long, skinny body and finally, a burlap face.

The thing straightens up and the face seems to smile at her.

**_“Hello, Susannah.”_ **

She finally gets to her feet and runs into the bathroom to lock the door. Too late, she remembers there’s no window in there.

There’s absolute silence in the room, and Susannah dares hope that it’s too risky to come after her. A second later, there’s a horrible **SCRAPE-SCRAPE-SCRAPE** at the door.

“Go away!”

 ** _“She screamed and screamed.”_** it rasps. **_“Even as she choked on her own fingers.”_**

She yanks the door off the medicine cabinet and breaks it, earning herself several shards of broken glass. She grabs the biggest one, ignoring the sudden welling of blood in her palm, and yanks the door open.

“Fuck you!”

She lashes out with the glass, feels it cut through clothing. Then the pale hands grasp her wrists, squeezing until something shifts and she drops the glass with a cry of pain.

**_“Naughty, naughty.”_ **

“Let go of me!”

The thing does as she asks-it hurls her into Jane’s bed, onto Jane and onto the blood oh dear god please please-

She tries to get up, to run, and the thing makes a gesture. She coughs, tasting something bitter, and Jane’s head turns towards her.

**“You were late.”**

Susannah begins to scream.

THE END

**  
**

****


	6. Lover's Lane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a combination of the various ‘makeout gone wrong’ legends, because they tend to be pretty similar. Word to the wise-just go to the movies.
> 
> This is exactly why I don’t let them go on dates very often. LEAVE PEOPLE ALONE. GOD.

 

Lorraine Warren looks from the scraggly little woods to her boyfriend in horror.

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon…”

“I said I wasn’t ready.”

“They all say that-”

“Take me home. _Now_.”

“But-”

“Now!”

Kyle Parks groans and runs his hand through his hair. Too bad. She told him (and told him, and _fucking_ told him!) that she didn’t want to. If his ears aren’t working, that’s not her problem. Asshole. When they get back, they’re so over.

The car makes a sad noise and she twists in her seat, prepared to break his goddamn nose if he won’t quit screwing around.

“What are you doing?”

He shrugs and turns the key again. This time the noise is sadder and angrier and she wonders if maybe he’s not just trying for one last chance after all.

_I’m never sneaking out again!_

“I’m gonna walk up and get some help, okay? Stay in the car.”

“I’m not staying here alone!” Stupid! “Just lock the car, let’s go.”

“It’s not safe. It’s literally like ten minutes, just stay here.”

Fine. But she doesn’t like it, and the minute they get back to cell phone service, she’s texting her girlfriends about this.

“Be careful.”

“I got this.”

Yeah. Sure.

He leaves and vanishes into the darkness with a cheery wave and she flops back in the seat, wondering if they get radio out here.

Out _here_ , Jesus…in what world was this a good idea? Really? It’s fucking _Gotham_ , there’s crazies everywhere!

She locks the doors. Better safe than sorry.

 _Do_ they get radio? Sitting here in silence for ten minutes sounds so…unappealing. She leans over to fiddle with the radio and gets static. Damn.

She tries to settle for whistling, but that’s creepy and she stops almost immediately. A few minutes later, though, she starts again because silence is worse.

_Zip-ah-dee-doo-dah, zip-ah-dee-ay…_

**Scrit-scrit-scrit.**

She lunges into the backseat, hits the door-lock button half a dozen times, and crouches down on the floor. Everything is gonna be fine, it’s just a tree branch blowing in the wind…

**Scrit-scrit-scrit.**

Just a branch. An annoying branch, though. Jeeze.

She straightens up a little, feeling silly for overreacting like that, and wonders what’s taking Kyle so long.

**Scrit-scrit-scrit.**

And that branch has gotta go, it’s driving her crazy!

She opens the door and steps out.

“I win.”

She screams and turns around. Standing not five feet from the car are two people, a man and a woman, nearly hidden in the fog. The woman is the one who spoke.

“I’ve spent the last five minutes coming up with my winnings, I’ll have you know.”

“All right, all right. So there was someone else with him, no need to rub it in.”

“You know how I love a good I Told You So.”

Wait.

With him? As in, Kyle?

“Where’s Kyle?” Her voice is squeaky and it’s nearly drowned out by the damn branch. “What did you do to him?”

The man points, a horribly devilish smirk spreading over his features. Lorraine doesn’t want to let either of them out of her sight, but she looks anyway and promptly feels like she’s going to be sick.

Kyle is hanging upside-down above the car. His mouth is duct-taped shut but every so often he’ll twitch and his fingers will rub against the roof of the car with a soft **scrit-scrit-scrit** sound. He looks like he’s unconscious.

“Oh my god-”

“They always say that.”

“Loss of words.” the man says smoothly. “What did you have in mind, anyway?”

“That _would_ be telling.”

“Oh?”

“Mm-hm.”

“What did you do to him!”

“Nothing.” His smirk grows wider. “Kitty, can you reach high enough, or do I need to…?”

“You’re not funny.” the woman-Kitty-snaps. “Give me.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I am tallying this up for later. Know this.”

“So vengeful. Like an angry Chihuahua-ow! Fine. Here.” He slaps a spray can into her palm and turns his attention back to Lorraine. “Run, and I’ll catch you.”

She runs.

She makes it about twenty feet before he catches her, long, grasping limbs wrapping around her like a beetle’s legs and sending them both crashing down.

**_“I told you not to run.”_ **

She flails and catches him in the stomach with her elbow. She regrets it a minute later when he grips the offending arm and yanks it back behind her, threatening to pop it out of its socket.

**_“Do it again. Go on.”_ **

She doesn’t do it again and they stand, make their way slowly back to the car. The woman has clambered up onto the hood of the car, much to her companion’s amusement.

“Thought you could reach?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs and she feels him gesture.

“You’re not going to fall off, are you?”

She throws him what looks like a backwards peace sign and lifts something from around her neck. It’s a gas mask. Why would she need a-

_SSSSPRAAAAAYYY!_

A white cloud emerges from the spray can and envelopes Kyle’s face. The woman leans forward and rips the tape off his mouth. He screams and begins to thrash in earnest, his fingers scraping wildly against the roof of the car.

“GET THEM OFF!”

The woman climbs off the car and strolls back over to them. Kyle continues to scream and flail, his face growing redder by the second. Lorraine kicks the man in the shin and tries to rip her arm free.

“Stop it! Just stop it!”

“Can’t.” He tightens his grip on her arms. “If you continue to thrash, I will have to hurt you.”

They seem to find this funny. She fails to see the humor.

This time she aims a little higher and he drops her, doubles over almost immediately. She runs.

_Gotta get help!_

No one chases her this time and she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she’s home free but where the hell _are_ they oh shit-

**VROOM!***

What.

Headlights play in the road and she glances back in time to see the car speeding towards her like fucking Christine.

Oh shit oh shit-

She dives to the side, but cars are wider than you’d think and it clips her knee. There’s a nasty crack and sudden pain and she goes down. The car stops and the woman gets out, looking ten levels of pissed.

“Please don’t hurt me-”

“Too late-motherfucker!”

Lorraine stares in horror as a huge shadow sweeps the woman's legs out from under her, sending her toppling over. Before she can get up, the shadow hoists her up by her neck and growls, **“Enough, Richardson.”**

“Five minutes. That’s all. Five minutes with this chit-”

The shadow, which already looked mad, somehow looks even madder. Lorraine shudders.

**“Let’s go.”**

The shadow throws the woman over its shoulder and turns to Lorraine. It reaches for her and just as its heavy hand grabs her arm, she passes out from the fright.

THE END

 

* _If you live in Gotham, you can get a car running. It’s a survival skill-either you’re running from the Bat or you’re running from us. I think parents teach it to their kids.-Kitty_


	7. Sewers

All right, this may not have been the best idea. Not because of all the rumors (crocodile in the sewers… _how_ original), but because Gotham’s sewer system was a maze.

But it was the quickest way to lose the Bat, and besides, it wasn’t like it was impossible to get out. It was just easy to accidentally end up across town.

And it smelled, but that was preferable to broken bones.

“Why’s it so damn dark? Don’t they have lights for the maintenance workers?”

“Budget cuts…I don’t even want to know what I just stepped in.”

“Don’t think about it.”

Yeah, everything on their bodies was going to have to be burned. There was no getting the stench out, no way in hell.

_Hiss!_

“What was that?”

“I don’t know. Pipes. Where the hell are we?”

“I don’t know.”

_Hiss!_

Damn Batman…this was his fault, all of it. Every last bit of it. Even the _scheme_ was his fault. If he hadn’t come to the asylum, things would still be running along smoothly. But noo, he had to come and rescue that

**_FUCKING BITCH_ **

Rachel Dawes, and here they were.

Not for the first time, he cursed the clown for killing her. How dare he?

The next time he could throw Joker under the bus, he was doing it and damn the consequences. If he was really lucky, it’d be an actual bus and the clown would die. That would just make his day-no, no, it would make his _year_.

_Hiss!_

What _was_ that?

“Jonathan?”

“Pipes.”

Probably, anyway. But rumors started somewhere…nah. The sewer workers would have noticed a crocodile.

“No, something moved-”

**Snort!**

Yeah, that was not a pipe.

Probably some weird homeless man. That was likely to be Batman’s fault again-Jonathan wouldn’t have to test on Gotham’s unfortunates if he still worked at Arkham.

“Next ladder we see, we’ll get out.”

“Agreed.”

_Splish-splish!_

**CLATTER!**

He cursed and bent down to see what he had kicked. It turned out to be a flashlight. Upon testing, it worked. Look at that, his luck was finally changing!

“Where did that come from?”

“Someone probably dropped it-”

**Snort!**

“Maybe let’s walk faster.”

For once, he was grateful to be underweight like this-less noise to be made. Surely they’d be out of here soon-

**ROOAAAR!**

“Run!”

 _Something_ burst out of the water and they sprinted, flashlight beam going wildly back and forth. He glanced back to see what the hell that was, caught a glimpse of…were those scales?...and decided he didn’t really need to know any more.

A ladder appeared and he boosted her up and flung the flashlight into the water. The thing in the water turned towards it and he took the chance to clamber up the ladder behind her.

“It won’t open!”

Shit-

**Creak!**

A black-gloved hand yanked her out, then him. Below, there was another roar and angry splashing.

He collapsed onto the asphalt, gasping for breath. Batman loomed over them and he cracked a smile.

“Never thought I’d be glad to see you, Bats.”

THE END


	8. The Scarecrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight variations have been made to this particular legend to make it Scarecrow-friendly (read: so I won’t be murdered in the night). The original legend involves a clown statue.

Max Sharp pulls up to his aunt’s house and stifles a groan. Babysitting? On Friday night? Ugh. But he bombed that test and his mom pulled the, ‘well, now that you’re grounded, you may as well help your aunt out’ card.

Bullshit, is what he calls it. Absolute fucking bullshit. It’s not that he hates his cousins-he loves them to death-but they’re at that boring stage where they wanna play House all the time and you can’t even swear in front of them because they’re like little parrots.

He loves them, they’re just kinda boring right now. And he had a _date_. Mothers. They never understand how much work goes into getting a date.

He shakes himself a bit, fishes his backpack (and a few McDonald’s wrappers) up from the backseat, and gets out of the car. He’s halfway up the drive when twin shrieks reach his ears and his legs are glommed onto by two pink bunnies.

“Maxie!”

“Hey, kiddos!” He shifts the backpack over and picks them up. “Let’s go in, it’s cold as fu-dge.”

Aunt Lucy is in the kitchen, wrapping up the last of a lasagna. Mm. Lasagna. If he gets hungry later, he calls dibbs.

“Hey, Max.” She looks frazzled. “Glad you could watch the girls, their regular sitter’s in the hospital. Go brush your teeth!” That’s directed towards Katie and Sadie, who reluctantly shuffle off. Aunt Lucy beckons him over. “Sue won’t be back.”

“Why?” He thinks he knows Sue. Homely girl with braces, right? Frizzy hair? Responsible. “She sick?”

“Scarecrow.”

Just like that, he doesn’t want to know anything else.

“Kids okay?”

“No. So you and I are going to check all the windows, make sure they’re locked, and when I leave you don’t open that door until I get back. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” She puts the lasagna in the fridge and wipes her hands on a dishtowel. “Everything should be fine. I wouldn’t ask if I thought you were gonna be in danger, but it was only a few blocks away and they didn’t catch him.”

“Why the hell don’t they just shoot him?”

She shrugs.

“Language, little pitchers.”

“Sorry.”

“I know, hard habit. I stubbed my toe the other day, I’m sure you can imagine how that went.”

He can. He really can. And the mental image of his four-year-old cousins running around squealing, ‘fuck-nabbit!’ makes this all worthwhile.

They check the windows and the back door and he takes in the haunted house that’s getting set up back there. Looking good, really. Pretty freaky. Y’know, for a little kid thing.

“You know the drill. Help yourself to the fridge, Wi-Fi password’s by the router, yada-yada. I should be back by midnight, but I’ll call if something comes up.”

Yeah, Mom has his laptop because ‘you’re grounded!’ He’s stuck with his phone (Aunt Lucy isn’t a dinosaur, no house phones here) and whatever cable she’s got.

Could be worse. Could be like Kyle’s house, which has no cable and shitty Wi-Fi. (Joker caused major issues in that part of town, city’s still trying to fix it. Again.)

“We’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, hon.” She tousles his hair and grabs her purse. “I gotta run. Have fun!”

Yeah. Loads.

She leaves and he meanders upstairs to see what his cousins are doing.

Spitting Listerine at each other, that’s what. That’s just gross. And the room smells like fake bubble gum from it.

“Hey, guys, don’t do that.”

“Why not?” Katie takes another swig and squirts it between her two front teeth.

“Yeah, why not?” Sadie swipes for the bottle and Max intercepts it.

“Because I said so. C’mon, help me clean this up.”

* * *

Getting them to actually go to bed is an ordeal, and he ends up suckering into their demands to watch _Dumbo_ first. They’re asleep halfway through and he carries them upstairs and tucks them in before going back downstairs to watch something else.

The motion light in the backyard goes on and he jumps before remembering that Aunt Lucy has a cat, Yasha. Yasha’s a mean fucker, too-big and orange and practically feral.

He looks out, trying to spot him, but there’s no sign of him.

The yard looks pretty freaky at night, actually. Probably because it’s half-done, more than anything-the props are scattered around, the Spooky Fencing isn’t quite put up, and there’s an animatronic werewolf just outside of the light that looks _awesome._

He goes to see what it does.

Turns out that it’s less cool when it’s moving-it snarls a bit and waves its arms, but that’s all. Bummer-what’s _that?_

Propped up against the tree is a scarecrow. Looks like it got thrown there-Aunt Lucy’s probably gonna put it back, after what happened-but it’s actually scary as shit. Though in Gotham, anything short of a cutesy Michael’s scarecrow is scary as shit.

The light goes off and Max flails wildly to get it back on. Yeah, that’s actually creepy. And it looks like it can see inside.

He’s about to move it when the doorbell rings. A bit late for Girl Scouts, isn’t it?

Whatever. He leaves the creepy scarecrow and goes to see who it is.

It’s a woman, but he really does think it’s a Girl Scout at first-she’s tiny.

“Hello?”

“Hey, my car broke down a little ways away and my phone’s dead.” She shrugs helplessly. “Your light was on…d’you have a phone I could borrow?”

Mom’s voice in his head is screaming _Stranger Danger!_ but his own voice is going _I can take her._

“Sure.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

He locks the door behind her and surrenders his cell phone, hovering a little because it’s his _phone_ and having it anywhere that’s not his pocket feels like losing a limb. She makes a call to what sounds like a mechanic and hands it back.

“I hate to impose, but d’you think I could wait?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

“No prob.” He sticks out his hand. “Max.”

“Kitty. You live here?”

“Babysitting, so shh.”

“Quite as mice.” She gives him a wide smile. “Thanks so much.”

“It’s nothin’, really. I’m gonna get a drink, do you want one?”

“Water, please.”

He steps into the kitchen. The motion light goes on again-fuckin’ Yasha-and he catches another glimpse of the scarecrow.

He hates to call Aunt Lucy, but some of those props are pricy.* Better safe than sorry.

“Hello?”

“Aunt Lucy? Sorry to bother you-is that scarecrow prop expensive? ‘Cuz he’s creeping me out and I wanna move him or something.”

“Scarecrow prop?”

“Yeah, the one by the tree.”

“Max.” Why’s she sound all freaked out? “Get the girls and call the police.”

“Huh.”

_“I don’t have a scarecrow-”_

**WHAM!**

He goes down, head aching, and hears the beep of the call being disconnected.

“Sorry, sweetie. Hush-hush.”

He rolls over, spots still flashing before his eyes, and hears the door open. Another voice reaches his ears.

“That looked painful.”

“I’m sure it was. Keep your voice down, he’s babysitting.”

“Good. We’ve got a little time, then.”

Boney fingers get under his arms and he’s dragged along the kitchen floor. He blinks a few times, trying to orient himself. The spots finally clear a little-enough, anyway, to see who’s dragging him.

It’s the scarecrow from the yard.

“No-”

Like lightning, a scrap of burlap is stuffed into his mouth. He gags, tasting dirt and itchy threads.

“I’ll find some belts. There was a coat closet in the hall, can you manage?”

“Of course I can manage.”

Footsteps leave and he’s dragged onto the carpet. Where’s she going? If she lays a finger on those girls-

NO.

He jerks free of the hands and stands up, wobbling badly. The Scarecrow remains where he is, the mask stuck in a permanent frown.

“Really.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“I do despise children…” He sighs and shakes his shoulders. “Don’t make this difficult.”

“Get out.”

“I tried to be nice.”

Before Max can move, he’s thrown his hand up and a cloud of white gas hits him in the face. It’s bitter and it stings his eyes, forcing them to close.

When he gets them open, Pennywise is standing in the hallway, clawed hand wrapped around a red balloon’s string.

“Hiya, Maxie! Want a…balloon?”

THE END

 

*Ex-Halloween shop girl here-they really are. Animatronics are usually more, but I’ve seen some that do nothing at all still run you a hundred easy. (We had an animatronic Hannibal Lecter once for…six hundred, I think. He was FABULOUS.)

 


	9. Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based off of the Bunny Man legend. Gotham has no Bunny Man, but it does have the Spirit of the Goat (I took a peek at that somewhere in College Days). Same basic premise-bridge haunted by creepy thing-but no dude in a rabbit suit.

“I’m sure this isn’t necessary.”

“Why not? Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared! I just don’t think this is a good idea.”

“You’d make me go alone?”

“Eddie’s with you.”

“You’re _right_. Stay here. He…may not come back…but don’t worry, it won’t be horribly painful-”

“Shut up, Jonathan.” She socks him in the arm. “Can’t we just stay in and watch a movie or something?”

“I promise not to let any escaped maniacs carry you off.”

“That’s not helpful.” She snuggles into a cardigan that _used_ to be his (laundry day should be named good-bye-clothing day) and wraps her hands around a mug. “It’s freezing anyway, you shouldn’t be out in this, you’ve still got a cough-”

“I’m fine. Come on, Kitty, you know there’s nothing there. They caught that one.”

“I’m not worried about _him_ , I’m worried about all the _other_ lunatics in this city.”

Reasonable, but the odds of running into one were still small.

“You can stay here _alone_ , I guess, but remember last time…”

“Did I say I wasn’t going?”

“No.”

“Well, then.”

He won’t mention the thriving cockroach population, he decides. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

* * *

Jonathan’s irritation with Edward Nygma diminishes substantially when it turns out that the man has an encyclopedic knowledge of Gotham’s Weirdness.

“…actually rumored to be haunted as far back as seventeen ninety-five! There are reports of travelers seeing _something_ living under the bridge-”

Kitty squeaks and does some sort of odd flail.

“Kitty?”

“There was a roach on my shoe oh my god oh my god-”

Edward has apparently missed this memo, because he promptly switches topics.

“Yeah, Goat Bridge has a thriving cockroach population. They think there’s something in the soil-”

She makes a low whining noise and before he can prepare himself, she’s clambered into his lap, pretty much, and refuses to move.

“Kitty?”

“No.”

“They can’t hurt you.”*

“Don’t care.”

“There’s not that many at this time of year-”

“Actually, they’re here year-round. It’s a bit of a phenomenon-again, they think something in the soil helps them be a little more resistant to cold temperatures-”

Her response to this is to make the whining noise again. He takes pity-to an extent, anyway-and says, “Edward, don’t help.”

Edward shrugs and picks up one of the aforementioned cockroaches. After a minute, he takes out a Tupperware and puts it inside with some of the dirt and a couple of plants. Whatever.

It actually is cold out here and he’s grateful that Kitty refuses to get off of him. It would figure that all the sightings take place in the middle of October-which, in Gotham, is cold and windy with a high chance of hail.

Edward’s new pet makes a nasty _scrit-scrit_ in its Tupperware and Kitty shudders. He pats her head and peers into the blackness under the bridge, hoping for a sight of _something_.

He doesn’t believe it’s haunted. But it is interesting how, despite their numbers, _none_ of Gotham’s homeless population will live under there. If he were homeless, it wouldn’t be bad-it’s sheltered, anyway. But they’d sooner sleep on the sidewalk than under there, and that’s strange.

“What do you think is wrong with this place, Edward?”

“It’s Gotham.”

And there it is, the explanation for everything here. Crime rates, insanity rates, general weirdness…this city is just sick.

Heh. Maybe it really was built on an Ancient Indian Burial Ground™.

_Rustle-rustle._

_Plop!_

“What’s that?”

Well, well, maybe there is something in there after all.

**_Yeah, probably that serial killer they’ve been looking for._ **

_Probably._

All the same, he dislodges her and stands up. Edward stows the Tupperware in his backpack and picks up the flashlight.

_Click!_

_RUSTLE-RUSTLE!_

A small grey rabbit sprints out from behind a bush and vanishes in the darkness. All three stare at the bush for a few seconds before starting to laugh. A rabbit. A rabbit! It would just figure-

**BANG-BANG-BANG!**

They stop laughing at once. Edward shines the flashlight under the bridge. It doesn’t go nearly far enough in.

Since Edward has the light, it’s only natural to shove him forward. He’s not going on his own, after all.

“Hey!”

“You’ve got the light, go forward.”

“I was getting there!”

“Boys…”

“You were standing there petrified. Go.”

“You go!”

“Give me the light, then.”

“Boys.”

“I’ll hold the light for you.”

“For Christ’s sake-”

“Boys!”

“What?”

She points a shaking finger behind them. They turn and for a minute all he sees is blackness, but then Edward points the flashlight upwards and he sees _what_.

There is a man-he thinks-dressed up in what appears to be goat skins, all stitched together to make a man-sized goat costume. He’s holding a bloody hatchet tightly in his hands.

Halloween prankster?

“Sir-”

The man grunts and steps forward. He’s…big. Big-big. No trouble carrying a body big.

“Oh, dear.” Edward murmurs. For once, he’s in complete agreement. All the same, he inches forward, hands raised in peace.

“We didn’t mean to disturb-”

_SWING!_

It is only through practice dodging Granny’s cane that he sees the swing coming and manages to dodge it. Never mind, it’s a murderer.

Kitty grabs his sleeve and nearly pulls him over before he can get his balance enough to run. They scamper up the embankment and sprint for the car. It’s only when he gets there that he remembers this is Edward’s (hideous) car.

And that Edward is nowhere to be seen.

“Do you know how to hotwire a car?”

“We can’t just leave him here!”

“I see no problem with that.”

“Come on.”

He’s tempted to let her go alone, but the guy with the hatchet is around here somewhere and…well…it’s not like she’s good at self-defense. A child could pick her up and walk away.

_I hate him. I HATE HIM._

They make their way back down, a little more cautiously this time. There is no sign of Edward, or the goat-man for that matter. Jonathan’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

There’s no screams of pain, anyway. If Edward’s been chopped into pieces, it was quick. Explaining everything is going to be hard, though…

“Run! Run for the car!”

Nope, Edward’s fine. Edward also runs like a drunken giraffe-oh shit there’s the guy.

They abandon Edward-if he can run, he’s fine.

Drunken giraffe-run or not, he outstrips them once they get up the hill and has the car open and running.

“Get in!”

They don’t even have the doors shut when he hits the gas.

_He would’ve left us._

**_Fucking asshole._ **

Because Life hates him, they take a sharp turn and promptly hit something.

Or, more accurately, someone.

“God dammit…”

They pile out of the car and Kitty says, “Keep driving.”

Illuminated in the headlights is the goat-man. His hatchet has dented the car and he does not seem to be dead, but his arm probably isn’t supposed to go that way.

Edward nudges him with his shoe and asks, “Jon, how bad would you feel about just driving away?”

“I have no problem with that.”

“Kitty?”

“Hit him again.”

**_Smart girl. I’m with her._ **

“I can’t afford the insurance…come on, let’s go before he wakes up.” He nudges the guy again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, he chased you with a hatchet!”

“I didn’t mean to hit him!”

The man groans and they scramble back into the car and drive away. Bad? Maybe. But no news comes about a weirdo in a goatskin costume being found dead in the road, so it really doesn’t matter.

All the same, he steers well clear of Goat Bridge after that.

THE END

 

*I tell myself, as I fling the glue trap into the bathroom and run away, hoping for the best.


	10. The Pimple

Misty Evans took a shuddering breath and opened her eyes.

_Clancy Drive…Maple Street…Daughtry Road._

The stark white walls of the observation ward stared down at her. The staff had tried to make her comfortable (while still keeping anything sharp out of the room), but she wanted to go _home_.

Another week. One more week, that was all.

**_“Scream scream little girl-”_ **

_Clancy Drive…Maple Street…Daughtry Road._

She got up and peed, wishing she could have coffee. But noo, that could ‘cause undue anxiety’ and was forbidden. Humph.

Whatever. One more week, and then she could have coffee. She would treat herself, she decided, with a nice big McDonald’s coffee, loaded with sugar and whipped cream. Oh, yeah.

She wondered if Batman drank coffee. She needed to get him some if he did, as a thank-you. Maybe someone at the GCPD knew. They had that big-ass floodlight on, after all. No way did _somebody_ there not know if he drank coffee or not.

**_“What do you see?”_ **

The Scarecrow, on the other hand…she knew he drank coffee. She hoped the bastard would choke on it. Like he’d choked her after she bit him, made everything turn to black dots like a lava lamp-

_Clancy Drive…Maple Street…Daughtry Road._

No. No Scarecrow. Batman had dealt with him. Everything was fine. One more week, to prove that she wasn’t going to stab her mother with a pair of scissors or something, and she could go home and put everything behind her. Maybe go on a cruise or something.

Her face itched and when she put her hand up she found the inevitable misery-a pimple. A cyst, felt like. God _dammit_.

She rubbed it and heard her mother’s voice in her head snapping, _No touching!_

Well, at least she had nowhere to go. When the nurse came in she’d ask for some tea tree oil, try to deal with it before it turned into a red, pulsating bitch of a thing.

* * *

“Don’t scratch, you’ll make it worse.”

“Sorry, Mama.” She dropped her hand into her lap and tried to ignore the painful, itchy throbbing on her cheek. “Can you spring me early?”

“You’ve got three more days, you’ll be fine. Better safe than sorry.”

Ugh, yeah, she knew. But still. It was _boring_ in here, and the day nurse was a real bitch.

“The doctor wants to chat with you alone for a few minutes. Is that okay? I can say no.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“I’ll be right outside.”

“Okay.”

Mama left and Misty flopped back onto the bed. After a few seconds, she snuck a quick scratch at the pimple. In the way of mothers, Mama immediately called, “And don’t you scratch that thing, it’ll scar!”

_Itchyyyyy!_

She wiggled a bit on the bed and ended up flicking her wrists to try and ignore the urge to scratch.

The doctor poked his head in with a light rap at the door.

“Misty?”

“Hi, Doctor Capa.”

“How are you feeling today?”

“Not bad. You know. I wanna go home.”

“I bet.” He adjusted his glasses and flipped through the papers in his hands. “Three more days, I promise. Can’t be too careful.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Anything going on that I should know about? Feelings of paranoia, desires to hurt yourself or others?”

“No, I feel fine. A little stressed out, I guess, but…”

“Normal. You’ve had a horrible experience.” He straightened up and stopped messing with his papers. “Well, Misty-unusual name, I’ve been meaning to ask if it’s a family one?”

“My mom was a bit of a hippie.” she confessed. “Y’know.”

“Oh, I do. Interesting. Anyways, Misty, you should be fine. Three more days and you’ll be home free.”

“Thanks, Doctor Capa.”

“You’re very welcome, dear.”

“Um, Doctor Capa?”

“Yes?”

“Could I maybe have some cream? For my face? This pimple really hurts, and…um…”

She could have sworn his eyes gleamed for a second, but then he adjusted his glasses again and the gleam was gone. Trick of the light. It wasn’t his fault that he had creepy eyes.

“Sure.”

* * *

One more day. That was all. One more day, and then tomorrow morning at nine AM she could go home. _Home_. She’d almost forgotten what it smelled like.

Misty sat in a hot bath, hoping the steam would help her pimple. If it wasn’t better by tomorrow, she was making an appointment with the dermatologist.

She breathed deeply and wondered if maybe she could pop it. Sometimes that did the trick. It may not have been _recommended_ , but she’d done it before and nothing bad ever came of it.

She got out of the bath and patted her face a little. Sheesh, this thing was red and swollen. One little touch would probably do it.

She made sure her nails were clean and pressed the pads of her fingers to either side.

_Squish._

Yeah, this bitch was ready and willing-she could see a tiny black dot in there. One more little squeeze-

_Pop!_

For a moment, the warm, tickling feeling running down her cheek didn’t register. But then a tiny body went up her nose and she realized that the black stream was hundreds of baby spiders oh sweet Jesus sweet _Jesus_ they just kept coming-

Misty began to scream and claw at the wound in her cheek, trying to get them out. In the hall, she heard someone shouting ‘Code Blue!’ but that didn’t matter it didn’t _matter_ _they were in her face god-_

The door flung open and there was a gentle prick in her neck, then everything swirled away, like water down the drain.

THE END


	11. The Colleague

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems to jump between ‘classmate’ and ‘housemate’, but we’ve already had a roomie one and I wanted to pop back into Arkham to say hullo.  
> So I listened to the Dead Man’s Bones album. I dig. So do these two loons. (They would…) They were less than amused when I told them ‘Lose Your Soul’ fits them better than ‘The Room Where You Sleep’, but they’ll just have to deal

Every class has that one kid nobody likes. Oftentimes there’s no discernable reason for it-it’s the ‘weird’ kid and that’s just the best explanation anyone can come up with. ‘Bad vibes’ or something.

Jonathan Crane has spent much of his life being That Kid, though he knows why. Intelligence in a town of idiots does not equal easy friendships. (He suspects several of the Salem Witches were probably too bright for their own good.) Knowing why doesn’t make it easier, though-all it’s done is make him highly suspicious of anybody trying to make friends with him.

This suspicion has carried over into Arkham Asylum, but it doesn’t matter here. One doesn’t make ‘friends’ with the boss. It’s not done. He likes that, likes the lack of meaningful social interactions with people he has to see for too many hours of the day as it is.

(That, and they’re still idiots-oh, they can spell, but all they can talk about is ‘ _Game of Thrones_!’ and ‘football!’ and ‘so-and-so is having _another_ baby, isn’t that exciting!’ He hates them all.)

All the same, he’s managed to resist the urge to murder them all. That’s far too many deaths to explain. Patients? They’re crazy and criminals besides, nobody cares. Even that one professor of Kitty’s was easy to pass off as a suicide. But mass murder…no, no, too much effort to pull off. He _could_ , of course-the police are also idiots-but he’s lazy and doesn’t want to.

Except for that one asshole, Jame Gumb. The man’s name is not lost on Jonathan, but unlike the character, he is not at all interesting. He’s arrogant and a fool, barely out of school and yet under the impression that he knows everything. Even the others have taken a disliking to him-he’s had more than one complaint of Gumb trying to take over somebody’s patient.

He could fire him. It’s tempting, but nobody in their right mind _wants_ to work at Arkham. Hell, there’s been days that he wants to set the place on fire. And so Gumb stays, annoying everyone and making a general nuisance of himself.

The day comes, in the end, that Gumb gets the courage to mouth off to him. To make matters worse, he does it in earshot of several people. If Jonathan were the dramatic sort, he would later say that an icy wind whipped through the room and silenced even the coffee pot.

“No, no, Doctor Crane, what you want to do is art therapy, let him get his feelings out.”

The people nearest to the door make a run for it, but everyone is rather trapped. He finishes pouring his coffee, steam curling around his wrist, and takes his time adding a packet of sugar and a tablespoon of powdered creamer. (Late night, he needs all the help he can get.)

“Do you take me for an idiot, Doctor Gumb?”

“No, I just-”

“My office. One hour. Don’t be late.” He drops the sugar packet into the bin. “Shouldn’t you all be working?”

There’s a mad scramble and he _swears_ he hears somebody whisper, “You stupid fuck, Crane’s the director!”

Yes. Yes he is. And he didn’t get here by being the Art Therapy type, either.

**_Yeah, you murdered your way here._ **

_It worked._

**_True._ **

He has one hour to prepare. And when he’s done, Gumb is going to wish he’d kept his damn mouth shut.

* * *

He decides that simple is best, in the end-minimal outside influences. He borrows a hand from the morgue, attaches it (badly, that cretin better not be late!) to the light switch*, and turns off all the lights. Then he steps into the little alcove to the right, mask in hand, and waits.

**_Boreeeed._ **

_Too bad._

**_Wanna play I Spy?_ **

_No._

**_I spy with my little eye…goddamn, your office is boring._ **

_Personal items are just begging for trouble._

**_Got any pics on your phone?_ **

_If you touch that phone, I will take pills and get rid of you._

**_You DO! Can I see? Are they good? Please say you took them, selfies never show anything-_ **

**Knock-knock!**

“Dr. Crane?” Ah. About time! “Uh, you in?”

_If he walks away-_

**_I’ll chase him down and drag him back! Like Leatherface! BUUUZZZZZ!_ **

_I was going to say fire him, actually._

**_Boring._ **

Gumb does not walk away. He comes in. Jonathan’s never been so grateful for those heavy drapes-when the door shuts behind him, the room is much too dark to see anything.

**_Soon._ **

“Dr. Crane?”

He tucks his glasses into his pocket and puts the mask on.

**Click.**

“Holy shit-”

Scarecrow lunges at him, arm outstretched. Jonny’s new formula is nice-especially after they rigged up the sleeve dispenser. It’s better than mace!

Gumb stumbles back, hand still on the corpse’s, and coughs. His eyes go round to the light switch and his fingers twitch, scratching gently against the grey palm.

Then the screaming starts in earnest. Scarecrow leaps forward and stuffs a wad of Kleenex into his mouth-can’t have people coming to see what’s wrong, after all-before wrangling him to the couch. His fingers have latched onto the hand and in the struggle, it falls to the floor. Scarecrow kicks it under the desk. Ew. It feels like kicking a rubber ball.

**_“Now, how about some art therapy?”_ **

THE END

 

*The original story called for a light cord. So many cord-related risks in Arkham. (Though Joker managed to get a wall switch through somebody’s eye once.)


	12. The Ball Pit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta wonder, just a little…how the hell did Dr. Crane convince the nurse/guard/whatever that Falcone totally just went coo-coo in Begins? Seriously, HOW? Maybe she didn’t care. Falcone was probably annoying as fuck anyway, maybe she was just, ‘yeah. Whatever. Take him away.’

Gotham’s sad attempt at a Chuck-E-Cheese knockoff has seen better days. For a few brief, shining moments, it was fun and safe. But then came the rise of the costumed freaks and-to nobody’s surprise-the place drew them like moths to a flame.

Most of the trouble comes from the Joker and, later, Harley Quinn. It was inevitable, really-bright lights, flashing music, tacky games…they really should have seen it coming.

But over time, the clowns cease coming in quite as often and the place begins to fill once more with little children. This wouldn’t be so bad if the place didn’t happen to be across the street from an abandoned office building that wasn’t exactly…empty.

Jonathan Crane, better known to Gotham as the Scarecrow, stands at a window and seethes. The ugly little place across the street is filled with shrieking brats and drunken adults, and it is becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on his work. These chemicals are _delicate_ , one wrong move could cause _immense_ chaos, and as fun as that is, he’s not ready for it.

On top of the general noise, the sign doesn’t work very well and it’s taken to flashing at random intervals. That, and the stench of cheap, greasy pizza permeates the air and refuses to dissipate.

It has been quite some time since he has been annoyed to this extent. He never _likes_ people, but lately…Batman be dammed, the temptation to go over there and teach them all a lesson is very strong.

He drums long, pale fingers on the glass and glares, semi-hoping he’ll glare hard enough to set the place on fire through pure hatred. Unsurprisingly, he does not and the sign continues to flash, garish red letters shining off his glasses.

Hmm.

A nasty hacking sound catches his attention and he turns away from the window.

“Go back to bed.”

“S’cold.”

“Put warmer pajamas on.”

“Too hot.”

He sighs and closes the blinds. They do nothing. Typical.

“Come on, back to bed.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Kitty Richardson sneezes, the force of it rocking her a little bit, and blinks at him with watery eyes.

“You look like Gollum, go back to bed.”

“Do not!”

“You’re small, with bulbous eyes and a warbly voice. You do.”

She opens her mouth-probably to tell him to fuck off-and promptly starts coughing again. He sighs and takes her shoulders, turns her around. She digs her heels in and refuses to budge.

“No.”

Fine. They can do this the hard way. Well, for her.

He picks her up, ignoring the decidedly Gollum-esque screech of rage, and goes into the other room. Amazingly, the noise can still be heard even through the closed door.

“I hate them.” She sniffs and fumbles for a tissue. “Can’t you make a noise complaint?”

“Something tells me that Batman won’t like that.”

“Batman’s not dying.”

“Neither are you.”

“I am so.”

He resists the urge to strangle her until she falls unconscious.

“If I make you ramen, will you eat it and go to sleep?”*

“Maybe?”

He’ll take it.

He shuffles into what passes for a kitchen and rifles through the cupboards. He can hear weak strains of the Birthday Song across the street and he wonders, briefly, how long it would take Batman to show up.

With his luck, Batman is in the area already.

He pokes the broth and wonders some more, mostly about ways to silence those brats and their ill-mannered parents.

He could threaten them, he supposes-his mask is unmistakable, all it will take is for him to stop by and ask ever so politely if they would **_shut up shut up on pain of death_** …but he runs the risk of them calling the police afterwards, and of the police calling Batman.

Batman, Batman! Everything always leads back to the Bat. What an inconvenient creature he is at times.

His fingers brush across the cell phone he lifted from his last subject (said subject is currently at the bottom of the river, and his phone is still operational). No, no, he’ll regret it, he always regrets it…

“HAPPYYYY BIIIIRTHDAYYYY TOOOOO YOUUUUUUU!”

No way will he regret it that much.

He punches in the number and hits send before he can back out. The phone rings an inordinate number of times and he’s about to hang up when a much-hated voice answers, “Helloooo?”

“Joker.”

“Ichabod!” Oh, he hates the clown. So. Much. “How are ya?”

_If you died, I’d be better._

“I have a question for you.”

“Oh-ho-ho! Brave soul.”

_I am well aware of that, thank you._

“You know that little ‘fun and food’ place that you and Harleen enjoy so much?”

“Mm.”

“Does it have a ball pit?”

* * *

Actually getting inside is a little harder than he thought it would be. Apparently ‘adults unaccompanied by a child’ are forbidden.

He takes the easy route: gassing the next employee to take out the trash, stealing his apron, and ducking in through the back door. Once he’s out of the kitchen, he ditches the apron and tries his best to look like, oh, an awkward uncle. Or something.

What? He hates children. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do with them.

No matter. This won’t take long. The ball pit-oh, god, so much disease to be found in there, he knows it-sits on the far wall. There are children currently in it. Good. An excuse has been found to wander in that direction.

It’s crowded. Nobody’s paying him much mind. So it’s so very easy to sit at the edge (he needs a shower after this) and force a smile and drop a needle into the sea of plastic, misshapen balls. It vanishes at once.

He forces himself to sit still for a few more minutes before leaving with a noisy brood. Free! Ugh, that was horrible. He is never setting foot in that place ever again.

He goes home, showers, and takes his book to the front room to wait. It might take a while for one of them to work their way down, might take longer for people to realize what’s happened. But when it does, it’ll be glorious.

He’s been reading for about an hour when Kitty shuffles in, coughing thickly.

“Where’d you go?”

“Across the street.” He makes a bit of space on the couch and she huddles next to him, fingers wrapped around her mug. “Sooner or later they’ll realize that.”

“What’d you do?”

“Slipped a needle into the ball pit. Figured one or two children panicking would draw less attention than the whole building having a breakdown.”

“Mm.” She stretches out so she’s half-curled in his lap. “G’night, love.”

He ruffles her hair and returns to his book.

Another hour passes before the ‘happy’ screams turn to horrified cries. A stream of parents and children leaves the building and not long after, an ambulance comes.

By this point, the sun is rising. Later today, he’ll do something terrible across town, draw Batman’s attention away from them. But for now he’s happy to sit here and watch the nightmare he’s created.

THE END

 

*I have a nice ramen recipe. PM if interested.


	13. The Dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original legend says something about embalming fluid. That’s no fun at all.

The dress, she supposes, is pretty enough. Too frilly for her liking, and much too pink, but she can see somebody fawning over it. Somebody with poor taste, but still.

The thing is huge. For a laugh, she put it on, and the result was a child playing dress-up with Mummy’s clothes.

Kitty sighs and leans her head on Jonathan’s shoulder. He continues scribbling-how can he read that?-for a few more minutes before setting his pencil down.

“I will be astounded if anybody buys this thing.”

“Harley already tried to buy it.”

“That only further cements my skepticism.”

She shrugs and squirms a bit, making a mental note to get a pillow for this damned stool. Bloody thing…no respect for those with less-protected bones.

Jonathan sighs and makes her sit up before straightening up himself.

“Come on, let’s get this in the bath.”

With any luck, it’ll be made prettier.

* * *

It is not made prettier. It is still pink, frilly, and generally ugly. And now it’s horribly deadly.

At least there’s that.

It’s hanging out to dry right now, moving eerily every time someone opens the door. It’s actually pretty freaky.

“You could just hang it up by a tree or something and claim it’s haunted.”

“After all that work? Absolutely not.”

She stretches and turns her attention back to the movie. A wheelchair chases some poor sucker down the hall and Jonathan shudders.*

“Granny had one of those. Belonged to her brother.”

“I don’t like that.”

“I’m pretty sure she killed him.” He tugs an errant thread free from his sleeve. “Guess we’ll never know.”

“Your wheelchair never chased anybody, did it?” He doesn’t answer and she pokes him. “Jonathan?”

“Of course not, that’s silly.” He does not sound convinced. “Think that thing’s dry yet?”

“You were scared of the wheelchair!”

“I was nine and she probably killed the owner!”

“It wasn’t possessed.”

“You’re the one who woke me up to come with you to get water after watching _Darkness Falls_.” Damn. He has a point. “Think that thing’s dry or not?”

“Go touch it.”

“You go touch it.” he grumbles, but he pushes pause and gets up. She follows him into the other room.

The dress is indeed dry, seeing as the current subject doesn’t die upon being shoved into it. They return said subject to the old dentist’s chair they’ve been using to restrain him and tuck the dress into a garment bag.

There. It looks normal-not even any light patches from its chemical bath. In the morning they’ll take it to a shop, sit back, and wait.

Gotham’s prom season is never going to be the same.

* * *

Alexis Dumas steps into the dress, zips it up as far as she can, and does a little twirl. Oh, that _is_ nice-fits her waist just right. And it’s cheap too, cheap enough that she thinks there must be a catch. Maybe the price tag is actually the down payment or something.

No, it’s not, and by that afternoon the dress is hanging up on her bathroom door. It’s just perfect. Lou isn’t going to know what hit her.

She takes a picture and debates on whether or not to send it to Lou. She decides, in the end, not to-let this be a surprise.

She rubs her fingers across the ribbon sash. It’s soft-velvet, she thinks-but it sheds a bit. She has to brush fibers off her fingers afterwards. But who cares, it’s _beautiful._

Lou is going to be so surprised.

* * *

“Holy shit.”

“You like it?”

“Duh.”

The girls kiss and Alexis’ mom appears with a camera.

“All right, you two, into the yard. I want some outdoor shots.”

Once pictures have been taken and promises have been made ‘not to do anything stupid, call if you’re drunk, I won’t be mad!’, they get into the car and go to pick up the others.

It’s about an hour later that Alexis starts to feel dizzy. Her mouth is dry. She needs water, she hasn’t been good about drinking tonight…

“Lex? You okay?”

“Gonna get a water.”

“I’ll get it.”

Lou elbows aside some poor freshman and Alexis feels guilty for laughing. Whoo…deep breaths now.

**Caw!**

Huh?

She looks up. Sitting in the rafters of the gym is a crow, its feathers ruffled. It looks pissed. How did it get in here, and how is not freaking out at the earsplitting music?

Birds are weird.

“Here. What’s up there?”

“Crow.”

“What?” Lou cranes her neck-it must suck to be short-and gives her a concerned look. “What are you talking about?”

“There was a…” The crow is gone. “Guess it flew away. Thanks.” She downs her water, but it doesn’t make her feel any better. “Gimme another minute, okay?”

“Do you need to go home?”

“Fuck no! I’m just a little danced out. I’m gonna sit here for another minute or two.”

“Okay. There’s food, I’m gonna get a snack.”

“Bring me an Oreo!”

“Get your own!”

Whatever. Lou would no more deny her an Oreo than she would kiss Jack Snell.

**Caw!**

The crow again. This time it’s on the ground. Quite near her, actually-if she puts out her foot, she might kick it.

Maybe it’s tame. Crows can be tamed, she thinks.

She puts her hand out. It watches her with beady eyes and then, to her great surprise, flutters up onto her lap.

Somebody’s pet, then, it has to be.

She goes to move it-those talons are sharp, they’re poking through the fabric-and it pecks her, **hard** , on the back of the hand.

**Caw! Caw!**

Where are all these crows coming from? And why isn’t anybody noticing?

She dislodges the crow on her lap and stands up. The newcomers flutter onto the table and stare at her.

“Um-”

**CAWCAWCAWCAWCAWCAW!**

She steps back and trips, falling flat on her ass. Before she can get up, the crows have landed on her. Before she can move, or even scream, one pecks at her eye.

She flails, blocks it, and gets a gash on her forehead instead. Her flail only infuriates them and they claw at her.

“No! Somebody!”

More crows come, cawing and circling her, and it isn’t long before her vision is obscured by black feathers.

Then one does get her eye, and the feathers are gone altogether.

THE END

 

 

 

*They’re watching _The Changeling_ , which is creepier than I expected it to be. I hate that fucking wheelchair.


	14. Bloody Mary

Everyone knows that the house at the end of Underhill Drive is haunted. It even looks haunted during the day-it’s an old building, three stories, that’s been here since Gotham’s early days. It’s the age that has spared it from demolition, despite the fact that nobody will live in there.

A sign stating ‘property of the Gotham Historical Society’ sits out front, but the weeds have nearly swallowed it. Really, the place is falling apart.

Which is why they all go in. It’s almost Halloween, what better activity than to go and explore the haunted house?

It’s dusty as shit in here, Justin thinks. How long has it been since anyone’s come in here?

Apart from the dust, the place looks like the owners just stepped out-there’s a wine glass on the table there, and a book with a scrap of paper still sticking out of it. Wow. Some of the stuff in here is worth a fortune-his mom’s an antiques dealer, he knows this kinda thing.

“This is freaky.”

“My allergies are acting up.” Annie says thickly. “Can’t we get out?”

“Go wait outside.”

“By myself?”

“Yeah.”

“No!”

“Then shut up.”

Justin rubs a finger across the book. It comes up grey.

**Step-step!**

“Did you hear that?”

Like lightning, Rose is across the room and clinging to his arm. Annie sneezes.

“Mice.”

Rose yelps and smacks his arm.

“Shut up!”

“Or it’s a ghost.” he says, dropping his voice just so. “Let’s go see.”

Annie doesn’t look like she wants to, but Rose is much more willing to face a ghost than she is a mouse.

They go up to the attic. Supposedly the ghost is that of a woman who killed her baby and herself, but who really knows?

What Justin _does_ know is that this room is a gold mine of stuff. There’s an old desk, a rocking chair, a trunk with who-knows-what, a life-size doll…

And a mirror. Oh, it’s covered up, but there’s nothing else that shape could be. He flicks the sheet off and is proven right. Wow. It’s a big one, almost as big as him.

“Hey, girls.” Annie sneezes. “Look at this.”

“It’s a mirror.”

“Don’t you know the story? Chanting ‘Bloody Mary’ three times in front of the mirror will summon the ghost.”

“I don’t wanna.” Rose says at once. “C’mon, Justin, let’s go.”

He turns to face the mirror and says, “Bloody Mary.”

Rose shrieks and swats at his arm.

“Shut up! Do you want to die?”

“Bloody Mary.”

“Fuck this, I’m going home. C’mon, Annie, let’s get outta here.”

“Bloody Mary.”

No bolt of lightning strikes the house and no ghost appears. He bends down to pick up the sheet and _hears someone singing._

“Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? Not so well, she said, see my lily’s dead, pull it up and out you go!”

“Who said that?”

“Justin…”

“Rose, did you do that?”

“Justin!”

Rose points at the mirror. No, at the _reflection_ -at the reflection of that life-size doll sprawled in the rocking chair.

It _was_ sprawled there, anyway. Now it’s sitting up. As he stares at it in horror, it stands up and totters a few steps.

“Ma-Ma! Ma-Ma!”

As his kid sister would say, ‘lol, bye’.

“Run!”

Annie’s already halfway down the stairs. With Rose right behind him, he follows her. The doll totters after them, still chanting, “Ma-Ma! Ma-Ma!”

Where’s the door where’s the fucking door-

There’s a scream and a **thud**. Then that awful, mocking voice starts singing again.

“Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? Far too hot, she cried, now my rose has died, pull it up and out you go!”

**Thump, thump, thump.**

Huh?

**Bump.**

Rose’s head, the face still frozen in shock, bumps gently against his shoe.

“Gah!”

He stumbles back, blinking in horror.

“Let’s play house!”

He scrambles down the steps just as one patent leather boot steps into view. Annie is already fumbling at the door.

“It won’t open!”

“Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? Had an early frost, now it’s gone, it’s lost, pull it up and out and up and out and up and out-”

“Stop it!”

The doll stops in the doorway. Its face is cracked, right down the left cheek. It cocks its head to the side.

“I want to play a game.” It giggles. “Let’s play…murder.”

“Stay back!”

_SLICE!_

The bloody, curved blade of a scythe hits the door above their heads. Annie screams.

“Well, well. Quite a pair of lungs on you.”

The scythe is jerked out of the wood and Justin turns.

The Scarecrow is standing not five feet away. Oh god oh no please-

“Didn’t your parents ever warn you about trespassing?”

“We won’t say anything…”

The doll steps forward. It’s not tottering now and Justin realizes that it can’t be a doll all.

“I think they’re lying.”

“I quite agree.” The Scarecrow adjusts his grip on the scythe. “I’m not lugging them both back, and since only one screamed…”

No no no no no no please-

_SLICE!_

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Google considers ‘Bloody Mary’ to be an urban legend. Fine.  
> I will probably never do this again, but I did rather enjoy the juxtaposition in the costumes-Jonathan’s rough outdoor burlap mess vs. Kitty’s more refined porcelain doll thing.  
> Kitty’s little song is from the stage production of The Secret Garden.


	15. The Hook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I did a Lover’s Lane one, but the hook story is friggin’ ICONIC. It’s special. Even though I tweaked it.
> 
> Also, since I couldn’t coax
> 
> Bully.
> 
> COAX Dr. Crane into doing ‘humans can lick, too’, I had to throw this in. Besides, now I can inflict more misery on him, since he wouldn’t let me do the other story.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The Alleged Car coughs and sputters and coasts to a halt. And, because this thing is possessed (it IS!), it decided to pick the most abandoned spot it could find to die.

He hates this car.

**_The car is trying to get you laid._ **

_I don’t like you, either._

**_I am trying to get you laid! God, can’t you be grateful?_ **

_I didn’t ask for your help._

**_God knows why._ **

“You all right, love?”

“Scarecrow’s making a nuisance of himself.”

**_OH! You did not just go there! You know what? FINE! Die a virgin. See if I care._ **

“Going on about make-out points?”

“Something like that.”

“You know…” She unbuckles her seatbelt and leans over to put her hand on his thigh. “It _is_ pretty secluded out here…no noisy neighbors, no Eddie popping round at a bad time…”

**_If ever you had a green light…_ **

_Shut. Up. NOW._

“Yes, and get arrested for public indecency.”

She laughs at him and swats his arm.

“You’re no fun at all.”

**_You’ve got to be kidding me. Tell me that’s just your token protest._ **

He ignores Scarecrow entirely, tries turning the key in the ignition a few times, and resigns himself to having to get out and pretend to know what he’s doing while waiting for someone to drive by.

**_Who cares. Girlfriend. Who, god knows why, actually wants to fu-_ **

_ENOUGH GO AWAY._

“I could try to get us a ride.”

Yes, by a deranged lunatic. Or, more likely with her, someone will just pull up, yank her into the car, and drive away.

“No, I’ll fix it.”

“How.”

Good question.

“No idea.” he says cheerfully, popping the hood and coughing thickly at the smoke that billows up. Oh, dear. This is either going to be expensive (textbook or car part? Choices, choices.) or inconvenient. Probably both.

Although…

“Do we have a flashlight?”

“Hang on, lemme see.”

There’s rustling and a few swears and one, ‘oh hey, a penny!’ before she gets out with a tiny keychain-sized flashlight.

“Wow.”

“It’s what there was.”

If anything, it’s worse than nothing because now there’s the tantalization of light with nothing really coming of it.

“I think maybe it overheated.” It’s certainly smoking. Or steaming. Whatever. Overheating is very possible, anyway. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe. Do we have a water bottle?”

They do not. They end up getting back in the car-it’s too dark to risk walking for help-to wait and try again in a little bit.

**_Since we’re stranded…_ **

He sighs and reclines the seat so it’s almost flat.

“We _are_ stuck here.”

“No.”

“It’s a rite of passage, isn’t it?”

“Have you done it?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“It has to be or there wouldn’t be horror stories.”

True.

“Still. There’s horror stories for a reason.”

“Fine.” She rifles through her purse. “Tic Tac?”

“Sure.”

It’s dark outside. He’d forgotten how dark it could be outside of the city. Look at that, he’s been in Gotham long enough to forget something like that.

Another half-hour and he’ll try again. Maybe. How long is one supposed to wait, anyway? What if that’s not even the problem? God, he hates this car…it’s got it in for him, he can just _tell._

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Kitty yawns and opens the glove box.

“Wonder if there’s any more pennies.”

Maybe. He doubts it, but it could happen.

A half-hour passes, and he gives it another fifteen minutes for good measure before slamming the hood (he can’t see anything, anyway) and straightening his seat.

“Let’s see, huh?”

“You can do it! Come on, you little bitch, you can do it…”

_SCRAAAAAPE!_

What the hell was that?

It’s too dark to see anything outside. It was probably a branch. Now, where’d those keys get to…

_SCRAAAAAPE!_

**BANG BANG BANG!**

Kitty digs the flashlight back out and turns it on. They catch a glimpse of a man outside before he finds the key, shoves it in the ignition, and starts willing the car to _please_ work, just this once, he’ll never have such high expectations again…

**WHRRRRRRR**

**VROOM!**

He loves this car. He shall name it Sweet Precious Baby and get it a new steering wheel cover and maybe even wash it someday.

So maybe a few speed limits are broken on the way home. It’s fine.

By the time they get there, it’s one in the morning. He’s convinced it was probably a teenager screwing around. Kitty disagrees.

“Come on, have you never heard even one of those stupid stories? Here they’re probably true, this city is a cesspool of crime-”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

He opens the door and something falls to the ground with a **clatter**. Huh?

“What was that?”

He picks it up, fingers trembling. For once, Scarecrow has no smart commentary.

“Jonathan?”

He holds it up and she laughs, but it’s that nervous laughter people do when it’s either that or panic.

Dangling from his finger is a heavy metal hook, the tip covered in dried blood.

THE END


	16. Danger Takes a Backseat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Gotham, always check the backseat. Or get a two-seater (but then check the trunk).
> 
> I considered having Batman do this, but let’s be honest-if Batman is behind you, you pull the hell over in case he needs to pass. Like an ambulance!

Jennifer Calzone (yes, she knows, just like the food, now shut up or learn her specialty-the knuckle sandwich) hates Christmas shopping.

Well, she hates shopping for the Secret Santa at work. She hates them all, she’s poor, it’s bullshit. Fucking HR and their fucking ‘teamwork’ crap…is it so wrong to hope that one of the minor costumed loons (that weird Moth guy would be fine) will target her workplace?

Yeah, she’s probably gonna go to Hell.

She dumps her bags into the trunk and climbs into her piece of shit car, cursing Sally from Marketing for existing. If it weren’t for her, she could be driving a Rolls Fucking Royce.

Or at least home by now.

The soothing strains of Mad Season* reach her ears and she sighs and wills the tension to leave her shoulders.

_Wake up, young man, it’s time to wake up…_

She zones a little, Layne’s voice lulling her into a calmer state, and wonders if she has the stuff for a hot toddy at home.

_So an infection, not a phase…_

Without warning, blinding high beams rip through her car. Son of a bitch, what the hell-

The car behind her is a big truck, a semi, and she can’t see the driver. After another second, the high beams go off. Maybe the driver hit a wrong button or something. It happens.

Heart pounding, Jennifer reaches for the volume. Deep breaths. Everything’s fine. No more zoning out for her, that’s all. Another twenty minutes and she’ll be home.

_The cracks and lines, from where you gave up…_

Everything’s just fine.

All the same, she changes lanes. It doesn’t matter-she and the semi are alone on the road-but she feels better. At least, until the semi changes lanes as well.

Okay. That’s a little weird.

_For a little peace from God you plead!_

Ain’t that the truth?

She speeds up. So does the semi. And then the high beams rip through her car again, making it hard to see. What the hell is this thing’s problem? Once she’ll forgive, but twice? Really? Fuck this clown-

It’s not the Joker, is it?

She strains to see the side of the truck, but the cab is too big and she can’t tell what’s written on the side.

She’s beginning to be frightened.

She hits the gas, almost hoping to be pulled over, and hears the semi speed up behind her.

Oh, hell no. She is _not_ getting murdered at Christmastime! Or at all, but she did not get Sally from Marketing a gift just to murdered before she can hand it over.

She puts the pedal to the metal and channels her Inner Batman (what, she’s seen him drive, he’s a menace). Her car may be shit, but it can get out of its own way if it has to. It squeals and groans and finally shoots forward. The semi honks at her. She gives it the finger.

“Not today, motherfucker!”

The high beams inch forwards, beginning to bathe the interior of the car. She leans forward as though that will help the car go faster. It does not.

Almost home, five more minutes, that’s all, just five more minutes-

**WHAM!**

A gargoyle lands on the hood and she hits the breaks, skidding to a stop. The gargoyle remains there, like the world’s ugliest hood ornament.

_HOLY SHIT THAT’S BATMAN FUCK FUCK FUCK_

She leaps out of the car.

“I’m so sorry you scared me shit shit shit-”

“You have hitchhikers.”

“Huh.”

The back door opens and two tangled shadows get out and sprint across the open field. Batman shoots something-a grappling gun? It’s black and shoots string-and they go down. He reels them back in as though he’s fishing. The closer they get, the more she can hear.

“-sorry son of a flea-ridden mongrel bitch, can’t you mind your own bloody business for once-”

“I just needed a new test subject, Bats, consider it population control-”

“Oh my god.”

The semi pulls to a stop and the driver-a stocky, middle-aged woman-gets out.

“Sorry to scare you like that, I was trying to keep them from doing something to you.”

“Thank you so much.”

Now that they’re in the headlights, she can see who they are. They look normal, but judging by that comment on ‘test subject’, she has a guess.

Kitty Richardson is still shouting at Batman, the insults growing increasingly creative. Jonathan Crane, on the other hand, has gone quite still, blue eyes gleaming behind his glasses.

Their eyes lock. He smiles at her.

Then he lunges forward, one arm suddenly free and outstretched. There’s a _click_ -

-and Batman yanks him back just as the driver yanks Jennifer away. A white cloud hovers in the air.

“Get back! Get back now!”

They stagger away, pulling their shirts over their mouths. Crane’s arm is at an awkward angle now, but that doesn’t stop him from laughing-harsh, pain-filled cackles that only silence when Batman wrestles the pair of them into his tank.

She is so calling in sick tomorrow.

THE END

 

 

*Mad Season is best described as The Doors meets the 90s-they only had one album, but oh, it’s so beautiful…anyways, the song used here is the opening track, ‘Wake Up’.


	17. Delivery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Jonathan’s upbringing being the horror story that it was, he has a white-hot hatred for religion-in particular Christianity in any form at all. Not advised: praying at him. You’ll be very sorry very quickly.
> 
> Tweaks have been made. I have bad cramps, somebody else needs to suffer.

James Rake strives to be helpful, to be a guiding light in the darkness of Gotham’s sins.

Unfortunately, this has downsides. At best, people take advantage of him. At worst, they call him an ass-backwards dumbass. But they’re blind, that’s all. The day will come that they, too, will know God’s love.

He’s just leaving church when he spots a girl outside, clutching an envelope in one hand and-oh. That’s a cane.

She looks very lost. He makes his way to her, trying to make more noise than usual so as not to scare her.

“Excuse me? Miss?” She jumps and turns, quivering like a rabbit and clutching her stick hard enough to turn her knuckles white. “Are you lost?”

“I-I need someone to deliver a letter, but I got lost…there was an accident, I had to take a detour, and-it’s silly, I know-I don’t know my way round very well yet, and I got turned round and-”

“Gotham’s busy, I get lost sometimes.” He tries to make his smile audible. “What’s the address?”

She bites her lip, clearly trying to think.

“Thirty…six twenty-two Bates Street. It’s urgent, or I’d have dropped it at the postbox, but I can’t go home without delivering it, he’ll be so angry…”

She sniffs and James feels that horrible panic all men feel when a girl starts crying at them. He suspects it’s similar to the panic women feel when there’s a baby crying-they’ll do anything to make it stop.

“That’s in a horrible part of town.” he says. “If you want, I’ll take it. It’s not that far out of my way.”

“No, no, I’m not helpless-”

“A pretty girl like you will be eaten alive.”

It’s true. Tiny, female, white dress, _blind_ …she may as well have a neon sign on her head that says, ‘do unspeakable things to me!’ He can’t, in good conscience, send her there.

“I’ll be fine, just put me right-”

“What if I took you? Would that be all right?” He’ll follow her if he has to. Bates Street is known by the rather crude name of Junkie Row, and with good reason. It’s in the Narrows, and those never did recover from the Incident a few years prior. “It’s just not _safe_.”

“You’re very kind.” She bites her lip again, thumb moving up and down the envelope. “I suppose that would be all right, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” He shoots off a text to his roommate, saying he’ll be a little late today, and wonders if he should grab her arm or…what.

“Would you mind terribly if I took your arm? In case there’s a crowd or something.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you so much. I really don’t know how to thank you-”

“Helping you is all the thanks I need.”

She smiles, and if it looks strained, well, he understands. It’s a risk, trusting strangers here. But a risk that must be taken-Gotham has good people, more than you might think.

Bates Street isn’t all that far, really. The girl-Katrina*, her name is-grows a little chattier the further along they go. She’s recently moved back here, after the death of her mother, she has a position at the university, and she has a cat.

In no time at all, they’re standing on a doorstep with the proper address. The place looks abandoned, but it _is_ in the Narrows.

“You may as well open the letter now.” she says, pressing the envelope into his hand. “It’s for you.”

“What?”

“Open it. Now.”

Gone is the sweet, shy voice. Now she’s looking at him (in his direction, that’s what he meant) as though she’ll make him regret not doing as she says.

He takes the envelope. It’s not sealed, and he opens it, slides a slip of paper out. Written on it in a messy hand is one word: _surprise!_

The door opens up. There’s a devil on the other side, a devil wearing a burlap face. Katrina turns to him with a wide smile.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been quite truthful.” She drops his arm and steps forward, dropping her can just inside the door and squirming up against the devil’s side. “Sorry. It really was very nice of you to come with me, though.”

Shock wears off and common sense kicks in and he tries to run. He makes it maybe five steps before they catch him.

* * *

One week later, James Rake’s fellow churchgoers arrive to a horrifying sight-James, hanging in place of Jesus, complete with crown of thorns. Blood drips from his mouth and fingers (they’ll later find out that he tore his own tongue out) and when the first responders go to take him down, he turns out to be _still alive_.

Nobody pays much mind to a handful of bystanders, which is a shame, because if they had been, further horrors might have been prevented.

“Terrible thing.” a man is saying, watching one old woman who died of fright be loaded into an ambulance. “Absolutely terrible.”

“It really is.” the woman says. “Poor things. What a nasty surprise.”

“Mm.” The man observes the scene with a clinical eye. “Can you get another one?”

THE END

 

 

 

 

*Kitty’s name really _is_ Kitty, but I wanted something similar to Katrina-as in, Katrina van Tassel, from _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_.


	18. Garden of False Prophets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this one’s got some roots in reality. I feel a little bit bad for using it, buuut I’ve got a spot in Hell reserved already. Besides, I fixed it so it’s almost unrecognizable.
> 
> Title sort of borrowed from the ‘Death Certificate’ of Living Dead Doll Isaac (the scarecrow), which reads, 'nailed onto a cross, this false prophet hates. Crows pecking at his innards, he just hangs and waits'.

Batman stops outside of the gates of Gotham’s Fall Festival. It was intended, once, to be a mainstay, a taste of autumn all year round, but Crane took a disliking to it and now here it sits, one of Gotham’s many urban ruins. He suspects that disliking stems from the giant cartoon scarecrow hanging from the gates with a speech bubble saying, “Howdy, partners!”

Technically, it shouldn’t matter. Logically, whoever designed this place should have known better.

As far as he knows, Crane had deemed the murder and mayhem to be sufficient and had not returned. Seeing as the campy scarecrow is still here, he doubts this is any sort of long-term lair. It’s not his type. He prefers a more sheltered area, preferably near a library or a thriving homeless population. This? A breeding ground for germs with no proper buildings? This isn’t like him.

Which makes it a trap. He supposes he should feel loved. Crane clearly doesn’t want to kill him, if he’s trying to set a trap.

He does not feel loved. He feels annoyed, because it’s _cold_ and it’s going to rain. _And_ Crane’s goons got a couple of lucky hits and managed to knock him over a balcony. The goons regretted it, but the resulting chaos gave Crane the opening he needed to vanish, and it took longer than Batman cares to admit to track him down.

No matter. He’ll deal with him-thank god Richardson’s been dealt with already. As his head will attest-Alfred is probably going to make some dry comment about flying bats versus baseball bats.

It hasn’t been a good night.

Crane will be expecting him to bypass the front gate, so he walks right through. Nothing happens. Now, where would he have gone…

A black, cawing cloud rises in the distance. Ah.

He makes his way there, eyes peeled for anything…interesting…and stops cold.

He is looking at a mock wheat field-meant to be a maze, no doubt-but it’s been mowed down a bit, to let the army of scarecrows really show.

Well, well. So this is Crane’s trap, then. Nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. Though to be fair, the League wasn’t trying to kill him at the time.

The wind shifts and he catches a sound. He permits a grim smile to flicker across his face as he zeroes in on a scarecrow to the left.

He tackles it to the ground-surprise and brute force are the best ways to deal with Crane-and rips the mask off.

That’s not Crane. But it’s not a real scarecrow, either. It’s a man- _Thomas Barker_ , his mind supplies, _missing for two weeks, left a note saying he ran off with a girl he met on a business trip_. Clearly, that’s not the case.

On a hunch, he lifts another scarecrow down from its cross and tugs the mask off. This one’s a woman- _Susan Hill, presumed dead for a month._

She’s certainly dead now-there’s a maggot in her left eye socket-and he puts the mask back on to preserve what little dignity she has left.

 **“Crane!”** he barks. **“Show yourself!”**

That has never worked before and it doesn’t work now. He makes his way through, lifting down obvious not-Scarecrows as he passes them. Some are alive, some are dead, and some really _are_ scarecrows.

There’s a rustling behind him and he whirls, lays eyes on another scarecrow.

But he cleared that cross.

**“Crane.”**

**_“You found me!”_** Scarecrow heaves himself up a bit more and cocks his head to the side. **_“What d’ya think? I went all out for Halloween this year…nobody noticed a thing!”_**

**“You’re coming in.”**

**_“Aww, you didn’t like it.”_ **

That doesn’t deserve a response.

He lunges forward, but Crane’s fast-and those long legs of his make pushing off the cross and sprinting away very easy.

**_“Not tonight, Bats!”_ **

The fearful, lights-on-but-nobody-home gaze of _Alicia Black, missing for two months_ stares up at him from a foot away.

He gives chase, shoving empty crosses and thick wheat stalks out of the way. Crane’s vanished, but he won’t have gotten far-

_SLICE!_

He hears the whistle of the scythe just in time and rolls aside. Before Crane can swing again, he grips the handle and rips it away from him, breaks it in half and tosses the pieces aside.

**_“That was my good one!”_ **

Too bad.

He tackles Crane to the ground and feels no remorse when he feels one of his ribs crack. He’ll be fine. _Tony Drake, missing for a week_ will not.

Cracked rib or not, Crane still tries to get his hand positioned. Batman grabs his wrist, feeling the mechanism there **crunch** under his fingers.

**“It’s over.”**

He yanks the mask off. Crane stares up at him, that insane grin spreading over his features.

“Will you sleep at night, Bats, after what you’ve seen here?” he asks. “Or will they haunt you?”

Sometimes, the only way to shut him up is to knock him out cold.

THE END


	19. Bedmate

“Damn.”

“Every time…”

They look at what was, five minutes ago, a promising subject. Now it’s just a body, not even stiff yet.

This is incredibly inconvenient. Not only is the subject now dead, but they’re in a _hotel_ , which makes body disposal that much harder. Sometimes they can make it work, but three floors up? Yeah, getting the thing out of here is going to a real pain.

“What now?”

Jonathan shrugs. Weak hearted thing…it should be mandatory to wear a little sticker that alerts would-be researchers to any health problems. Humph.

“I don’t know.”

Kitty nudges the corpse with the toe of her boot and frowns.

“Selfish prat…how dare you?” This is directed at the corpse. “Nobody said you could die. Nothing even happened to you yet!”

“I don’t think yelling is going to fix this.”

“I’m annoyed. All that work put into getting a new one…rubbish.”

They prop the corpse in a chair for the time being-no need to trip over it in the night-and play rock-paper-scissors for first shower. Several ties later, they give up and share it.

Hotel showers are small as it is, and this particular hotel should just be dubbed ‘Cheap Shit Inn’. All the same, these little cubicles have their benefits. For instance, less room to fall in.

They pass out on the bed after that and sleep like the dead for a few hours. Come morning, though, there is still the problem of the body.

Hmm.

In the end, it’s a tabloid headline, spotted while grabbing bagels, that solves the problem: **Bodies Hidden in Hotel Beds? Gotham Inquirer Investigates.**

It’s probably all lies. But not for long!

There’s actually no way they’re shoving this fat thing between the mattress and the bed frame-that’ll leave a lump like no other. So they haul it to the bathtub, get a sledgehammer, a saw and a blowtorch from the trunk, and get to work.

It’s a grim, messy affair, punctuated with the splintering of bones and the smell of cooking flesh. But blood-smell is harder to get out than cooked-meat smell, and a lot more noticeable.

In the end, the would-be subject is in five pieces and the mattress has a neat slit in the side. Bits of the filling are piled off to the side. If nothing else, this should throw Batman off the scent for a little while. (It’s a shame he can’t linger and watch the reactions of whomever discovers the body, but such is life.)

It takes an hour to shove the pieces into the mattress and stitch it back up, but in the end the only sign that there’s another guest in the room is a slightly lumpy mattress, and well…it’s a cheap hotel. No one’s expecting luxury.

They check out, innocent as can be, and go on their merry way.

* * *

“Oh, god-”

Marlene Davis’ cry of pleasure is cut off by her husband’s lips pressing against hers. They shudder together before he rolls off of her and they lie still, panting. After a few minutes, she gets up to pee and clean herself up a bit before coming back to bed.

It’s a cheap hotel, and they could afford a better one, but the cheapness is part of the charm-just like when they were first married and poor. Dumb, maybe, but still. It’s been twelve years and two kids, it’s nice to feel young again, however they manage it.

The bed is lumpy. And it smells. Now that she can actually pay attention to her surroundings rather than Joe, this room is actually kind of awful. And it’s ugly.

Wow, it really is just like when they were first married and poor.

 _God_ , what _is_ that smell? Is there food under the bed? She hangs off the side-ow, ow, laying on boobs, that’s bad-and peers under there. Nothing. Not even a crumb. What the hell?

“Do you smell that?”

Joe sniffs a few times and wrinkles his nose.

“Yeah.” He leans over, looks under the bed, and shrugs. “Maybe someone’s cooking something in another room?”

Maybe, but it’s gross.

She tries pulling the covers up over her face, but that just makes it worse. Is it the bed? Maybe it’s the bed.

Marlene presses her face against the mattress and inhales deeply. A second later she gags. Yeah. It’s the bed. It stinks. What the hell? Were the sheets never washed? What _is_ that smell?

“Go complain.”

“What is it?”

“The bed stinks.”

He shrugs.

“It’s not as bad as the Blowout of ’87.”

Actually…

Yeah, it’s not that bad. It’s awful, but it’s not that bad and she’s kind of lazy.

Ugh. Cheap or not, this hotel is getting one star when they get home.

* * *

The Davises complain in the morning. The hotel is very apologetic, and when two hours of what the manager secretly refers to as ‘hardcore cleaning’ fails to remove the smell, they are moved to another room.

The smell really is bad. It’s hot in here, which is probably just making it worse, but it’s absolutely awful.

“It’s the mattress.” one of the maids says to her partner. “Maybe there’s a mouse on the underside.”

They strip it and are about to heft it up to check when the partner spots the stitching.

“Look.”

What the hell?

They find a pocket knife and slit the mattress along the stitched-up line. A second later, the manager hears screams.

When she arrives on the scene, the maids are in the hallway, jabbering on the phone. She pokes her head in and promptly slams the door.

Hanging out of the mattress is a rotting human arm.

THE END

 

 


	20. Fixed Gaze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Subject transport is easier than you’d think. MOST people have enough sense to mind their own business.-Dr. Crane

Will Collins has a secret hatred for taking the train at night. It’s creepy and run-down and once he saw a gargoyle jump off the top of it.

Sometimes it just can’t be helped, though. Like tonight. He was visiting his elderly mother, lost track of time, and had to be back at home to go to work in the morning.

He’s fine. He’s a grown-ass man, after all. He can take the train at night like it ain’t no thang. Because it’s not. Obviously.

For once, he’s not alone on the train. There’s a little group of three sitting near the back. He sits by them, trying to be cool, and regrets it a few minutes later.

The young people look normal enough-tired, a little, but normal. The woman propped between them, however, won’t stop staring at him.

He tries to hide his discomfort, but he must not be very good at it, because the man chuckles a little and says, “Now, now, Mrs. Smith, it’s not polite to stare.”

“I-it’s fine-”

He shakes his head and adjusts the woman so she’s sitting up a little straighter.

“ _There_ we go. We’ll be back soon.” He smiles thinly and makes the universal gesture for ‘cray-cray’.

Great. He’s stuck on the train with an insane woman. This sucks.

He forces a smile and hides behind his newspaper, pretending not to see her.

A little while later, someone else gets on the train and sits near them. The younger pair look a little annoyed at this and he wonders if maybe the woman-Mrs. Smith-has trouble with too many people. Maybe he should move.

The newcomer-an older man-leans over and taps his thigh. What the hell, he is _not_ into that!

He’s about to say so when the man tilts his phone just so and he glances down to read the message: _We need to get off the train NOW._

The next stop is his anyway. The old man can follow or not, but if he tries anything he’s getting an ass-kicking.

The train shudders to a halt and he flees, followed closely by the old man. The doors have barely shut behind them when the man says, “I’m sorry to scare you. But I wasn’t sure if you knew who that was.”

“Uh, they were escorting some crazy lady?”

“They made her like that.” the man says breathlessly. “I’m a doctor, I’ve treated people like that before. She won’t be coming back from that.”

“From what?” He’s getting a little annoyed now. “Look man, it’s late and I wanna go home-”

“Fear gas.” the man says. “That was the Scarecrow you were sitting across from.”

He’s never riding the night train again.

THE END


	21. Remember, Remember...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is surprisingly old-there is 1950 film based on it, and an even older one (1938!) that’s a bit less-known. I first read it in one of the Scary Stories books, but it turned up on Snopes at some point and then I googled it proper. This has really been an informative collection for me-absolutely fascinating.
> 
> It’s also a classic mind-screw-the sort of thing Dr. Crane would find most amusing.
> 
> It’s so rare that they just waltz up to my door…god, I love tourists.-Dr. Crane

Rosa Sharp and her mother, Marie, step off the train and look at Gotham City. It’s…less exciting…than she thought it would be, based on Mama’s stories. She was expecting something more glamorous-run down a bit, yes, but in that Hollywood way. What it actually is is rotting-it smells, there’s a pair of prostitutes literally twenty feet away, and there’s a splash of blood on the bricks by her feet.

Mama’s rose-colored glasses must be firmly in place, to want to come back here.

She keeps her mouth shut, though, instead plastering a smile on her face.

“Is it like you remembered?”

“Mm.” Mama sways and clutches at her arm. “Mostly.”

“Are you still dizzy?”

“Mm-hm. Don’t worry. I’m fine. Come on, there used to be a little house that took guests, let’s see if it’s still there.”

Can’t they stay in a hotel?

She still says nothing, instead gathering up their suitcases and hailing a cab.

This supposed house is in what Rose thinks is the bad part of town. There’s homeless people everywhere and she’s not sure if that guy is passed out or dead, but either way there’s a needle in his arm.

There’s no sign, no ‘vacancy’, no nothing. If it’s not outright empty, no way is it a guest house anymore.

“Mama, I don’t-”

But she’s already knocking on the door, her boney knuckles making a sharp **rap-rap!** on the peeling wood.

“Mama-!”

The door opens, first just a crack, then further open.

“May I help you?”

“Do you still take guests?”

Oh, Mama. Never did beat around the bush…

The man at the door-oh, _my_ , look at _that_ -blinks a few times before straightening up.

“Yes, we do. How many?”

“Myself and my daughter, we don’t mind sharing a room if you’re full-”

“Not at all.” he says smoothly. “The rooms are small; you’d be too cramped. Come in, come in.”

She doesn’t want to come in. But then again, this is a vacation, it’s not so wrong to hook up with one of the locals…

She gives him a smile that’s just a tad too friendly and hopes he’s not the oblivious type.

They step into a hallway and the door shuts behind them, bathing it in shadow.

“Forgive the lack of lights, this house is very old.” he says. “The upstairs rooms have been fitted with modern lighting, however.”

“Have you owned it long? You look so young…”

“My grandfather was the original owner.” They come to a desk with a notebook on it. “Your names, please?”

“Marie Sharp. This is my daughter, Rosa.”

“This your first time in Gotham?”

“I lived here as a girl.”

“Never really leaves you, does it?” He sets his pen aside and closes his book. “Kitty! We have guests!”

“What?”

“I know, it’s a surprise!” He gives them a wide smile. “We don’t get too many people these days.”

“Such a shame. I remember this place always being so busy.”

“Well, people have gotten more paranoid about staying in ‘off-brand’ places…ah. Kitty, these are our guests, Marie and Rosa Sharp.”

“Pleasure. Jonathan, that bloody pipe’s at it again, would you take a look at it?”

“Sure.”

She leans up, kisses his cheek-damn, there goes that nice daydream-and beckons them to follow.

“Right upstairs, ladies. Mind the third step up, we’ve fixed it about half a dozen times and it still tries to kill us.”

Great.

Their rooms are on the second floor, at least, and they’re not bad once the drapes are opened. Granted, the view is less than stellar-abandoned factory by the river, neat-but the beds are soft and the lights work.

“Thanks.”

“Sure. Ask if you need anything, it’s no trouble at all.”

She leaves and Rosa drops her suitcase on the bed before going to help Mama settle in.

Mama still isn’t looking right. She’s been a little off since last night, and Rosa was initially sure it was jet lag, but now…

It probably is just jet lag, and after a nap she’ll feel better.

Mama must agree, because Rosa’s barely poked her head in when she flaps a thin hand.

“I’m going to lie down now.” she says. “You should, too. We’ll go out to dinner in a little bit.”

* * *

They don’t go to dinner, because they both sleep until it’s too late to care. Rosa nibbles on a granola bar at three in the morning and wonders if Mama wants one, if she’s feeling better.

She goes into the room. It’s dark and at first she wonders if she should just go back to bed, but then she hears a groan and that does it.

“Mama?” She feels for the light switch and finally finds it. “Mama, are you okay?”

Mama doesn’t answer and Rosa rushes to the bed. She shakes her mother a bit and, when she doesn’t wake up, she backtracks to get her phone.

She’s halfway there when she stumbles into the man.

“Miss Sharp? Is something wrong?”

“M-my mother, I need an ambulance-”

“Kitty’s a nurse.” he says. “Ambulances in Gotham are ridiculously overpriced, let her take a look?”

“It’s nothing personal, but-”

“What’s going on?”

“Mrs. Sharp has been taken ill. Miss Sharp would like to call an ambulance.”

“Let me see.”

“I’d rather you didn’t-”

“There’s been a bug going ‘round, looks worse than it is. Two minutes.” Before she can protest, she’s been pushed by and they’re leaning over her mother. “Okay…Jonathan, would you fetch me the thermometer please?”

“I really don’t think-”

“Quiet.”

Maybe it’s stress, or tiredness, or that human reaction of ‘somebody knows what they’re doing, do what they say’, but she silences. On the bed, Mama is still and quiet and nonresponsive and Rosa is starting to panic.

Jonathan has just returned with a thermometer when Mama makes a low noise and whispers, “Headache…”

Relief hits Rosa like a tidal wave, followed by guilt for being such a dumbass.

“She has a migraine.” she says. “I guess I missed the early signs, but she’s always been prone.”

“Good thing you didn’t call the ambulance, then.” Kitty says lightly. “Out, out, let the poor dear get some sleep.”

They leave and Rosa goes to get dressed.

“Where’s a Sprouts?”

“Across town, why?”

“Sometimes lavender helps, but I don’t have any and she forgot to pack hers-she said so on the train.”

“The maintenance man will drive you.” Kitty says brusquely. “You look like a tourist, you’ll get mugged five minutes out the door.”

“I couldn’t-”

“We insist. Don’t we?”

“We do.” Jonathan gives her a small smile. “It’s fine. Mister Jones!”

A hulking brute of a man appears from the shadows. Rosa does not want him to drive her anywhere.

“This lady needs to go to Sprouts. You will take her there, is that clear?” Kitty leans over to Rosa and whispers, “My cousin. He’s none too bright, but wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Huh. Yeah. Sure.

“Really, I can get a cab-”

“A sick mother is no trivial matter.” Jonathan says shortly. “We insist. Be safe.”

And before she can protest, they’re in the car and the front door is shut.

* * *

It seems to Rosa that they take forever. They hit all the red lights and she’s willing to swear that they pass the same homeless guy at least twice, but finally-finally!-they reach the Sprouts.

She makes him wait in the car, gets a small bottle of lavender oil, and returns in under five minutes. The drive back takes just as long as the drive there, and by the time they reach the little house, she’s about to bludgeon him over the fucking head and take the wheel herself.

He takes _forever_ getting his keys out and opening the door, and even though she knows nothing’s really wrong, she takes the stairs two at a time to Mama’s room-

-where’s Mama.

“Mama?”

The room looks untouched-no sign of her mother at all. Did she get the wrong room?

No, there’s her room, just across the hall.

“Mama?”

“Ah, Miss Sharp. You were gone a while. Find what you needed?”

“Where’s my mother?”

Confusion crosses Jonathan’s face.

“Your mother?”

“Yes, my mother. Where is she?”

“Presumably at home in bed, unless it’s daytime where she lives.”

“She was here, where is she?” Who is this nut, anyway? “Where is she!”

“Miss Sharp, I’m going to have to ask you to calm down.”

“Where is my mother!” She steps forward, intending to shake him until he drops this horrid joke. “She was here and now she’s not and this isn’t funny!”

“All right, Miss Sharp.” he says, his voice horribly calm, “If you’d like to search the rooms to satisfy yourself, you may.”

“I will. Move.”

She shoves his skinny ass aside and proceeds to tear the floor apart. Where is she, where _is_ she…?

“Mama!”

She’ll call the police, she decides, that’s what she’ll do, and they’ll produce her mother because that’s how these things work-

“…lock her up, she’s delusional, could be dangerous-”

What?

She creeps to the door and pokes her head out. _They’re_ in the hall, huddled together and speaking in hushed voices. She can barely see them in the light spilling from the room she’s in, and they look like living shadows.

“You’re sure?”

“She’s convinced she checked in with her mother.”

“I did!” she screams, flinging the door open the rest of the way. “You did something with her! I know you did!”

“See, Kitty?” Jonathan makes a helpless gesture. “She’s not well.”

“She really isn’t.”

“I’m perfectly fine-fuck you. Fuck you both, I’m calling the cops.”

With more speed than she would have thought was possible, they rush her, shoving her into the little room.

“Sit down, Miss Sharp. Clear your head.”

“What the fuck is your problem-”

But they’ve already backed out of the room, and a second later she hears the door lock from the outside.

* * *

“Rosa…Rosa.”

Rosa blinks. She passed out not long after being locked in…locked in!

“Rosa.”

“Mama?” She tries to turn her head, but she’s not there yet. “Mama, I was worried…”

“Rosa.” Mama sounds… _off_. “Rosa.”

“I’m here, Mama.”

“Shame, really.” She screams and jumps up. Mama is sitting next to her. _They_ are sitting on the bed. “Such a nasty reaction. It was almost like a chemical lobotomy, after the screams were over.”

She turns then, turns and really looks at Mama. She’s rocking a little, hands clasped in her lap. There’s a clean, white bandage wrapped around her head, covering her eyes. Rosa blinks a few times and _oh lord that’s blood there-_

“What did you do to her!”

“She did that. Clawed them right out of her little grey skull.” The man cocks his head to the side. “I wonder if you’ll have a similar reaction…like mother, like daughter and all that.”

“Stay away from us.” She feels for something, _anything_ to use as a weapon. “Stay away!”

They smile at that, horrid little smiles with too much cruelty to be comforting.

“As you wish.” Jonathan says. He picks up a brown thing and pulls it over his head and Kitty tugs a gas mask over his face.

“What are you-”

He throws his arm towards her and a puff of smoke flies from his sleeve. It’s bitter and she coughs, knowing instinctively that she shouldn’t breathe it in.

Knowing is not the same as doing and when she finally catches her breath, the room is on fire.

THE END


	22. Things That Scare Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a few ‘crybaby bridge’ stories throughout the states. Arlen’s a friggin’ town of horrors, they so have one. Because I said so. And because I felt like writing something with Too Precious for This World Little Crane. (Canon never elaborates, it’s not like they can prove me wrong, either for Arlen or his TPfTW status. I AM GOD.)
> 
> Title from the Neko Case song of the same name.

**_This is a bad idea._ **

“I didn’t ask you.”

**_Ya should’ve, this is a bad idea._ **

“It’s just a ghost story, it’s not true.”

**_How do you know?_ **

“Because ghosts aren’t real. Now be quiet, I don’t wanna get caught.”

Jonathan Crane stills, listening for any sounds that might indicate that Granny is awake. The house is quiet apart from the occasional rumble of the pipes and he deems it safe to continue.

**_This is a shit idea, ya know that? A really fucking shit idea._ **

“Don’t swear.”

**_Will you not be stupid, and stay in?_ **

“No.”

**_Fuck shit goddammit._ **

He ignores Scarecrow-yes, he knows Scarecrow’s not real, but it doesn’t always seem like that-and eases the heavy front door open without a creak.

**_I’m gonna have so many I Told You Sos if ya die, ya hear me, boy? SO. MANY._ **

“I’m not gonna die.”

The kids at school say the old Babbit Bridge is haunted, that some woman had too many kids and threw the latest into the river because she couldn’t afford to feed it, and that on certain nights, you can hear it crying. He doesn’t believe it, but Granny confirmed the baby-in-the-river, said it happened when she was a girl.

So of _course_ he has to go see.

What he doesn’t understand is why Scarecrow, who usually goes out of his way to get him into trouble, is so dead set against it. Maybe it’s because Scarecrow has always been his opposite-tall and brave and feared by all, capable of doing what needs to be done. So now, when Jonathan’s decided to do something, it would make sense that he would protest.

Yes, that’s all it is.

**_No! It’s because I’m the one here with a lick’a sense, that’s what it is. Go back to bed like a normal kid._ **

“It’s the weekend.”

**_Boy, if you get caught, you’re gonna get the beating of a lifetime!_ **

“That’s nothing new.”

He passes the chapel, lit up by the moon, and considers, if only for a moment, sneaking back to bed.

The moment passes and he continues on. If he moves a little quieter so as not to disturb the birds, well, that’s just common sense.

**_Jonny, this is very stupid. Go home and go back to bed._ **

“No. And don’t call me Jonny.”

**_THEN GO HOME._ **

“Are you scared?”

**_Pfft. No._ **

Yes.

“You are scared. That’s why you don’t wanna go.”

**_March your ass back home and pray you don’t get busted. NOW._ **

“Prayer doesn’t work, it’s not real.”

**_Blasphemy!_ **

“But it’s true.”

**_And here you are, ghost-hunting._ **

“I don’t think there’s anything there.”

Babbit Bridge looms up ahead of him, lit clearly by the full moon. It’s empty-of course it is, it’s midnight-and more importantly, it’s quiet. No crying babies to be heard.

“See? Nothin’.”

**_Great. You risked getting in deep shit with Granny for NOTHING. Good for you!_ **

“Don’t swear, and I told you so.”

**_You sneak out and tell ME not to swear. One of these is not like the others, Jonny-boy._ **

There’s the rustle of feathers-he’d hear that sound a mile off, he knows it-and he ducks into the bridge where it might be safe. A second later there’s the hoot of an owl and he relaxes. Owls are nice. They never cause any trouble.

It’s dark inside the bridge, and chilly for summer. He rubs his arms together and wishes he’d worn something a little warmer.

**_Careful, Jonny-boy, ain’t you ever heard of rubbing two sticks together to make a fire?_ **

“Shut up, Scarecrow.”

The owl hoots again and he sees it glide by, silent as a ghost. Do owls eat crows?

The river-more of a creek now, they’ve had no rain for weeks-burbles a little. He leans over the railing and looks down. It’s black and there’s no reflection, either of the bridge or anything else.

He wonders if the baby drowned or if it hit its head. Granny didn’t say-probably didn’t know.

**_Little morbid, ain’t it?_ **

“I’m just curious.”

**_Yeah, yeah, now get your curious ass back inside. Every time you spend too much time in the cold, you get sick._ **

“It’s summer, I’m not gonna get sick.”

**_You always get sick. You’d be dead if you lived in one of those old books you like so much._ **

“Yeah, probably.”

The sudden wail of a baby splits the night and he leaps back from the railing.

**_I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO!_ **

For once, he has no response. The wails are earsplitting, bouncing off the walls of the bridge. He tries to cover his ears, but that doesn’t do anything but amplify the sound of blood rushing in his head.

**_Run, fool, run!_ **

Without warning, the crying stops. He leans over the railing again and sees…nothing. Of course there’s nothing.

**_Uh, where’s the baby?_ **

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, the screams still echoing in his ears.

“Mind playing tricks. That’s all.”

**_Come on!_ **

“That’s all. I’m gonna go down there and prove it. Just mind playing tricks.”

**_Go down-! You are the dumbest damn kid…no. No. Jonny. JONATHAN. Do not go down there, go home, what are you doing?_ **

Jonathan picks his way down, expecting to see maybe one of his stupid classmates. Never mind that it makes no sense for them to be out here.

It’s empty under the bridge-no baby, no classmate, no nothing. And, admittedly, no source of the crying. He tosses a rock into the creek and the only response is the ‘ich-a-bod!’ of a frog.

“Hello?”

No answer, no muffled giggling. Nothing but the crickets and the burbling of the creek.

There’s footsteps on the bridge above and he ducks into the shadows and strains his neck trying to see who’s up there. They’re heavy and slow and he doesn’t recognize them. They leave the bridge and he hears them going down the path a bit, but he still doesn’t see anyone.

**_Well, o skeptic one?_ **

“It’s dark.” he murmurs. “That’s all.”

Scarecrow scoffs. Once the footsteps fade, he comes out and makes his way home.

He’s just easing the door shut behind him when the hall light comes on.

“Jonathan Crane.” Oh, no. “Where have you been?”

THE END


	23. Hide 'n Seek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never considered the original version of this to be an urban legend, but Google insists that it is. Okay!

Lucy Case sprints through her parents' house, gasping for breath. There's footsteps on the stairs behind her, light enough to be mistaken for the house settling.

 _ **"Little Lucy!"**_ She takes the attic steps two at a time. _**"You can't hide from me!"**_

Yes she can. She has to. Hide or die.

The attic really isn't that helpful. Nothing, no way out-what's that?

An old trunk sits against the far wall. It's huge, and she's small. It will do.

_**"Loooo-ciiieeeee!"** _

She climbs in and covers herself with the old blankets inside. Not a moment too soon, either-she's barely stilled when she hears the door open wider.

_**"Come out, come out, wherever you are!"** _

_Don't breathe don't move don't breathe don't move_

_**"Is she here?"**_ She hears cardboard boxes-they hold Christmas lights-move. _**"No, not here."**_

_Don't breathe don't move don't breathe don't move_

_**"Maybe she's here."**_ More boxes move aside. _**"No, not here either."**_ The monster laughs. _**"Where, oh were can little Lucy be?"**_

The light steps come towards the trunk and she bites her lip so as not to make any noise.

_**"Maybe she's HERE!"** _

The lid flies up and the blankets are ripped away. She screams and shoves at the white-speckled hands and claws at the burlap face frowning down at her.

_**"I win!"** _

"Get away!"

She tries to get up, to get some leverage to kick out, but she's barely got her head out when the monster slams the lid of the trunk down on it. She slumps back, world spinning and blood running down her face.

**_"Ah-ah-ah. I have plans for you."_ **

She moans and tries to rouse herself, but nothing will obey her. The monster eases her back down and wraps her up in the blankets so she can't move her limbs, then places a small capsule by her head.

_**"There we go. Nighty-night, don't let the bed bugs bite!"** _

Then he shuts the lid and she hears it lock. A few seconds later, the capsule begins to smoke.

* * *

“Lucy?”

James Case knocks on his daughter’s bedroom door and pokes his head in. She’s not there. Weird. She said she was coming by to study because the construction noise by her dorm is making it hard to concentrate.

But she’s nowhere to be found.

“Lucy?”

He calls her phone. He hears that god-awful screech (Bubby’s theme?*) from downstairs and he goes down to find it.

The phone is sitting on the table. Lucy is nowhere to be seen.

“Luce?”

Where is she?

He goes outside and pokes around, thinking maybe she’d decided to study in the hammock. She’s not there, either, and he’s starting to worry again when he hears her phone start screaming again.

“Lucy?”

It’s not on the table. Relief washes over him-she must have picked it up-but it’s swiftly followed by annoyance when the screaming doesn’t stop.

“Lucy, either answer it or ignore it!”

Now it’s upstairs, and up he goes to complain (because he’s still mad that she worried him, dammit).

“Lucy!”

Attic? It sounds like it’s in the attic. What’s she doing up there, if she’s snooping for Christmas presents…

It is in the attic. Where is it, where is it…it’s muffled, so…

Trunk.

Oh. She’s trying to play a joke on him and probably can’t turn it off. She was always bad at surprises-as a little girl he knew when she was hiding because she wouldn’t stop giggling.

He tiptoes over to the trunk and opens it.

Then he screams.

Lucy is inside, mouth frozen in a scream. Her eyes stare lifelessly at the ceiling and the phone continues to shriek from where it’s placed by her head.

“Lucy!”

_**“Surprise!”** _

James whirls around. Standing by the round window is the Scarecrow.

“You.”

_**“Me.”** _

“You did this, you bastard-”

 _ **“You got me arrested and thrown back into Arkham.”**_ the man snarls. “Should’ve thought that through a little more.”

“She had nothing to do with that.”

 _ **“No. But I consider it a fair trade.”**_ He straightens up and saunters forward. _**“You have my condolences.”**_

James throws a punch and misses badly. The Scarecrow laughs and shakes his head.

“You son of a bitch-”

_**“Oh, I agree with that. But now’s not the time…I have to run. Places to be. We’ll do lunch!”** _

He lunges forward, intending to take the bastard down. The Scarecrow sidesteps him and bolts down the attic steps. By the time the police show up, he’s long gone.

THE END

* _Bucky’s_ theme, not-with-it dad, the industrial scare cord that plays in The Winter Soldier.

 


	24. The Donor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got the idea from Gotham’s take on his backstory, but since that doesn’t really mesh with my take…happy coincidence. Well, not for the poor sap in the bath, but nobody cares about that.

Malcom Pritcher wakes slowly, his head fogged and his limbs heavy. It’s cold, he thinks. Numbingly cold, actually-he can’t feel his ribs. What happened last night? He’d been walking home, and a man had asked for directions, and…and…

You know, he wasn’t sure what happened after that. He’d been drunk, he knows that, fucking fall-down drunk, so maybe he passed out?

This bed is not comfortable. Where the hell is he? Hotel? Drunk tank? Doesn’t matter. His back hurts and he needs to move, try to straighten it out.

He cracks his neck and goes to sit up and an icy voice hisses, “Don’t. Move.”

Huh?

He opens his eyes. It’s bright, eye-searingly bright, and the tiles finally tip him off that he’s in a bathroom. In a bathtub. Filled with ice.

The owner of the voice is the guy that asked him for directions-he’d know him anywhere, with those eyes. Said eyes are watching him now, like he’s a bug under a microscope, and Malcom decides he wants to go home _now._

“Where am I.”

“It doesn’t concern you, Mister…” The man consults what Malcom recognizes as his wallet. “Pritcher. This is yours, isn’t it? You didn’t mug someone before we picked you up?”

“Who are you.”

“Were you raised by wolves? I asked you a question. I suggest you answer it before I lose my **_temper_**.”

Malcom shudders, though he can’t say whether it’s at the sudden voice change or the ice.

“Yeah, that’s mine.”

“There, see? Manners cost nothing.”

“What do you want, man, I don’t have a good job or anything-”

“I have what I want. Don’t panic…yet.” The man smiles at some private joke. “Reach down and back behind you a little, slowly and _gently._ Kitty will be cross if you undo all her hard work.”

He does as he’s told and feels stitches and a little rubber tube-a surgical drain.

“What did you do to me.”

“Experimental thing. You were good enough to sign up for a little study of mine.” He smiles thinly. “Apologies for the ice, but I can’t have you contaminated with painkillers, and screams of pain are not something I enjoy.”

It’s the wording that tips him off and a fresh wave of horror breaks over him.

“Scarecrow.”

“Look at you! Quick on the uptake for someone so soon out of surgery. For the sake of politeness, you will refer to me as Doctor Crane. Is that clear, Mister Pritcher?”

He doesn’t want to refer to this nut as anything but ‘sick, twisted freak’, but he also doesn’t want to make him angry.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Doctor Crane.”

“That’s better. I am going to leave the room for a few minutes. Don’t squirm, it will make a mess.”

He leaves and Malcom hears the bathroom door lock. No escape for him, then.

What did they take out of him? Kidney? Everyone’s heard the kidney thief story, but nobody really does that…maybe they do. This is Gotham, after all.

He’s tempted to at least clear some of the ice away, but he suspects it’s the only reason he’s not hurting right now. So he sits still, shivering and miserable and praying for Batman.

The bathroom door opens. A woman enters, Crane hovering behind her.

“Ah. Mister Pritcher. How are you feeling?”

He knows who this has to be. He considers ending things quickly by calling her a fucking bitch, but self-preservation wins out in the end.

“Numb.”

“Sorry for the ice, but it’s better than the alternative.” She stuffs a thermometer in his mouth. “Finally, one survives. Took long enough.”

How many people have they done this to? Where the hell is Batman?

“Accounting for the ice…you should be all right. I think we can take him out now, I don’t want him getting hypothermia.”

His hopes of running are dashed when Crane summons two big…y’know, he’s not sure if they’re men or women or what. They’re big and scary and could snap him like a twig, that’s all he knows.

“Take him downstairs and get him situated. Be gentle with him, I don’t want to have to go through this again.”

The big things lift him from the bath and wrap him in a cushy towel. Then they walk him-slowly, oh, so, slowly-out of the bright bathroom and into a dim basement. It’s cold down here, but a different kind of cold than the ice. It’s cold like-god, this is dramatic, but it’s true-like a grave.

He’s escorted into what looks like an old magician’s cage and given clothes. The big things sit and lurk until he gets dressed and sits down, then they leave.

With the door shut, it’s almost pitch black down here. He wraps the towel around his shoulders and shudders. It’s quiet down here, too, quiet and still. After a few minutes, he gets up and feels his way around the cage.

It’s small, and sturdy, and when he puts his hand outside he can feel a chain and padlock. He’s not getting out of here any time soon.

Now that the ice is gone, pain is starting to make itself known around the incision. He wonders again what they took out of him-if anything, maybe this is an elaborate set-up of Crane’s for…who knows.

He sits back down and tries to make himself comfortable. The cement floor makes that nearly impossible. It’s cold and hard and he can’t get warm.

His eyes eventually begin to adjust and he can make out vague shapes-a table, a cabinet, and a heavy-looking chair.

He misses the bathroom. At least that was normal-looking. Everyone has a bathroom. It was familiar, at least, y’know?

The door opens and a sliver of light slithers down the steps like a snake. Kitty Richardson comes down, a mug in her hands.

“’Ullo, ‘ullo!” She walks up to the cage and holds up the mug. “Tea? It’d be good for you. Warm you right up.”

He wants nothing from her. There could be something in it.

“No.”

She smiles at him.

“I would drink it, if it were me.” Yeah. And. “Y’know that man they found in the river, clawed his own face off?”

Yeah, everybody knows about that guy.

“Yes?”

“He ended up that way because he couldn’t keep his comments to himself.” She eases the mug through the bars. “All I have to do to ensure that you’re the next one is say that you said something to me.”

“I didn’t!”

“We both know that, and Jonathan knows that. It’s a game we play sometimes. So drink the tea, or suffer the consequences.”

Drinking the tea-provided it’s not spiked-might buy him time to escape or be rescued. He takes it, grudgingly, and prays it’s not tampered with.

“Thank you.”

“It’s safe, I promise. You’re still needed, don’t worry.”

That makes him feel worse.

She leaves. Crane must be at the top of the stairs, because he hears her say, “He’s fine. He’ll behave now, I threw the fear of…well, I wouldn’t call you _God_ , exactly, but you get the idea.”

“Keep that up and they’ll call me a sap.”

“Yes, but a murderous sap. And it’s not like he’s going to blab.”

Hell no. If he gets out of this, he’s moving to Florida, changing his name, and never speaking of this again.

“When do you think he’ll be able to withstand stage two?”

“Give him a day or two. And feed him-just because you consider food to be optional doesn’t mean other people do. Besides, he’s out of surgery, he needs energy.”

Stage two? What the fuck is stage two? He doesn’t want to be part of stage two!

The door shuts and locks-seriously, they’ve already locked him in a cage, what do they think is gonna happen?*

The mug is warm in his hands and he hazards a sip before really thinking it through. The tea is hot and bitter-he’s never liked tea-but she was right, it does warm him up.

Damn.

Nothing bad happens and he takes another sip. Before he knows it, the tea is gone and he’s left with a rapidly-cooling mug. He clutches it, hoping to preserve the heat.

Maybe he’ll die of hypothermia before they can do anything to him.

* * *

He’s down there for what feels like days before the door opens and one of the who-knows-what-it-is people comes down with a TV dinner. Ew.

He eats it anyway, tasting salt and crispy bits from being left in the oven for too long, and tries to ignore the lurking…thing…outside the cage.

He’s just handing the plastic tray back when Crane comes down, clipboard in hand.

“Ah, Mister Pritcher. How are we feeling?”

“Sore.”

“I’m sure. Normal soreness, I hope? No stabbing pain or anything?”

What’s ‘normal soreness’ after surgery, anyway? He’s not screaming for death, so he’s gonna assume he’s fine.

“I don’t think so.”

“Excellent.” Crane makes a little note on his clipboard. “No strange side effects-hallucinations, hot flashes, blackouts?”

“No…”

Crane’s expression is downright predatory. He tucks his pen back into the board and turns around.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Mister Pritcher. No more food tonight, I don’t want him aspirating on vomit.”

What.

“What did you take out?”

“All in good time.” Crane sounds halfway up the stairs. Malcom hopes he falls and breaks his neck. “Good night!”

“Wait-”

The door opens and closes and he’s left alone with Big Ugly.

* * *

Malcolm is startled out of a sound sleep by the lights turning on with a deafening **CLICK**.

“Move the patient to the chair.”

“What’s going on?”

“Be quiet.”

The cage is opened and the Big Ones enter, grip him under the arms, and heft him to the chair.

“Gently, cretins, I need him to be alive for stage two.”

“What are you doing?” He squirms a bit, but that sends pain through his back and makes Crane mad.

“Stop squirming, you idiot! Get him restrained, _now_.”

He’s pushed roughly into the chair and restrained with heavy leather straps straight out of a horror movie. Crane holds up a needle with yellow…stuff…in it.

“You’ve been asking about your surgery.” he says, tapping the needle with one fingernail. “It’s a little complicated to explain, but I’ll try.”

“Look, Doctor Crane, I promise I won’t say anything, just lemme go-”

“No, no, not after we’ve come so far.” He picks up a little recorder. “What we took out of you is what is your adrenal gland-better known as the fear gland.”

“What.”

“I am not explaining the specifics to you, I don’t have enough two-syllable words for that. All you need to know is that you get to be my very first subject. You should be honored.”

He’s not honored. He yanks at his hands, hoping to slip them out of the leather straps, but gets nowhere.

Crane sighs and shakes his head and comes over.

“Behave. It’ll hurt less.”

“Get back!”

“Shh.” He grips his wrist. “Just a little prick…”

He can _feel_ that shit sludging through his skin, thick and slimy. It burns.

“Please-”

Crane reaches for his recorder and holds the button down.

“Three-fifteen AM, patient two-nine-six has just received eight milligrams of formula thirty-one.” he intones. “Patient shows signs of discomfort.”

“Damn right there’s discomfort, freak, what the fuck-”

Crane removes his finger from the button and frowns.

“I didn’t ask for your input.”

“Fuck off!”

“You could be helping mankind.”

“How.”

Crane shrugs and holds the button down again.

“Three-sixteen AM, patient showing no immediate reaction.” He shines a little light into Malcolm’s eyes. “Pupils slightly dilated.”

His arm burns and he tries to flex it, to ease the pain. His heart is pounding and his vision is getting wonky.

“Three-seventeen AM, patient’s breathing is becoming erratic, pulse is-”

Too high, too high, can’t breathe-

“Damn. Well, you never know until you try.”

Those are the last words he hears.

THE END

 

 

*Harley. Harley could happen. Or worse-Edward organizing things again.


	25. The Bat-Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the Bunnyman Bridge, the Jersey Devil is pretty location-specific. BUT Gotham has weird shit. And poor Bats is just asking for urban legends to crop up around him. Sorry, Bats!  
> Blame enchantersnight for this.

Jonathan hates the train. It smells, it’s riddled with _people_ , and the floors are sticky.

But mostly it’s the people. He hates them all, but unleashing mass terror on a train can only lead to disaster.

It’s crowded tonight, more crowded than it usually is, and he’s confused for several minutes before finally spotting someone sporting a band t-shirt. Concert, of course.

 _I am a generator of hatred,_ he decides. _It has no bounds._

Kitty tightens her grip on his arm and mutters, “If one more of these people bumps into me, they’re losing a limb.”

“Low profile.” he mutters back. “Remember?”

She huffs and dodges a running child before it can smack into her.

“Little brat.”

Karma is sweet-the train takes a hard curve and the child is thrown to the floor. It begins to screech and Jonathan wonders if it’s so wrong to ask for Breeding Licenses to become a Thing. Common sense, that’s all-‘what is acceptable public behavior? A) running B) screaming C) A&B D) standing quietly’.

Yes, that would be nice…

**BOOM!**

The lights flicker and die and he spends a few seconds coming up with creative swears before inching towards the back. That sort of noise from the top of the train? He knows who that is. The general public might not, but the criminal underworld knows damn well who it is.

This is going to be ugly and probably painful.

The train speeds on towards its destination-three minutes, that’s all-and he eyes the back doors. Everything’s fine, he can’t get in-

**CRASH!**

A window shatters and the Dark Knight himself swoops into the train. Jonathan can barely make him out, but the running child has no such problems.

“The Bat!”

_Yeah, no shit, you little brat-_

There’s the flash of a camera and Batman stops and turns. Jonathan can feel the disdain from here.

_A man after my own heart, almost…_

He is not distracted for long and, with two minutes still to go, he advances on them.

“We can talk about this-”

**“Crane.”**

“I haven’t done anything for two weeks at least-”

**“Don’t lie to me.”**

If he’s upset over the junkie, Jonathan doesn’t know what to tell him.

“Look-”

Batman’s hands fly out and grip them both, one in each. He didn’t want to have to do this, but-

“Hey!”

More flashes.

“Keep flashing, it stopped him earlier!”

What the hell?

Everyone on the damn train has their phones and tablets out and on ‘nighttime’ setting-it’s like a sea of strobe lights.

“The power of Christ compels you!”

Oh.

Oh, dear god. That stupid legend, ‘Gotham’s Own Jersey Devil’ or whatever…

If he weren’t being watched, he’d be clapping with glee.

He is being watched, though, which means he’d better make this good.

He’s going to have to wash his mouth out when he gets home.

“O-our father, who art in Heaven-”

Some brave-or drunk, or suicidal-soul leaps forward. Normally Bats wouldn’t be phased, but he’s not expecting interference and he stumbles. A little. For him.

But that stumble is all they need-especially when the train shudders a stop and knocks everybody off-balance.

They pull free and run _towards_ the flashing phones. Batman moves to follow, but mob mentality has kicked in now and the others cluster together.

“Return to the place from whence you came!”

“Get back to Hell!”

They fall onto the platform and book it.

Once they skid into their current lair and lock the door, they stand in the hall for several minutes before bursting out laughing.

“We’ll have to get a tabloid tomorrow-”

“They _prayed_ at him!”

“Somebody flashed the cross, I saw it.”

“Oh, my god!”

Still chortling, they make their way into the kitchen for vodka. They’ve barely clinked their shot glasses together when there’s the sound of the door being kicked in.

_I hate the goddamn Batman!_

THE END


	26. Stranger Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like ‘Lover’s Lane’, there’s a million of these. In Gotham, most of them are true.  
> Jonathan’s ‘charm’ (such as it is) only goes so far-he hates people, and hiding it is hard. But Kitty dared him to do it, and no way in hell is he going to let her win.  
> My family-with two exceptions-is all born in May. All of ‘em. So ‘month families’ are a thing.

Jessica Welsh tightens her grip on her son’s hand and curses the mall. It’s big, overpriced, and crowded. But it’s also the only place to shop for everyone’s birthdays (her family is a June family- _everybody’s_ birthday is in June! Everybody’s!) and so here she is.

“Mommy, I’m tired.”

“Don’t fuss, Jon.”

“But-”

“We’re almost across the mall, we’ll get you a stroller when we get there. Okay?”

“Okay.”

There! A stroller. She should have got one when she came in, but she’d hoped to get out of here faster.

“Okay, baby, up you go.”

She gets Jon situated and turns to head into the Nature Store when instead she rams the stroller into the knees of a panicked-looking man.

“Oh god I’m so sorry-”

“N-no, I shouldn’t have been so close, but…” He swallows hard. “Something’s wrong with my daughter, she won’t stop crying a-and I don’t know what’s wrong with her-”

He’s young and flustered and any irritation melts away. Probably his first outing in a while. Fathers…

“Come on.” She can at least dump her packages in the car before going in for round two. “How old is she?”

“Two.”

They make their way out of the mall, the man apologizing profusely the entire way.

“I thought maybe a mother would be better than some _completely_ random stranger…I can’t tell you how kind this is of you, I just don’t know what’s the matter, she’s completely beside herself…”

It’s dark outside. How long has she been in there, anyway? It’s getting dark early now and her clock is off.

The parking lot’s nearly empty, too, and his car is at the end.

“It was crowded when we got here.” he explains. “I can’t thank you enough-”

“It’s fine. I’d hope someone would help me if something was wrong with Jon.”

He smiles-it looks strained-and digs out a set of keys.

“Here we are.”

She can’t see inside, and she doesn’t hear a child. She tightens her hold on the stroller handle and turns around, ready to ram it into his shins if there’s any trouble.

“Guess she’s cried herself out.”

“Maybe.”

He moves, just enough for his glasses to show a reflection-a reflection of someone with a pipe upraised.

She shoves the stroller away and rolls to the side before the woman can swing it, and then she runs, snatching Jon up on the way.

“Somebody help me!”

Her voice echoes badly in the parking lot and she scans it for a guard, another shopper, _anyone._

A gunshot rings out and a bullet rips through her leg, sending her crashing to the ground. Jon screams when he hits the pavement.

“Run!”

“Mommy!”

“Run, baby, get inside-”

The man has caught up to them by now and he plucks Jon from the ground.

“Ah-ah-ah, I don’t think so!”

“Let go of him, you son of a bitch!” She struggles up, dragging her leg behind her. “Let him go right now-”

**WHAM!**

Blinding pain lances through her leg and she goes back down, seeing stars.

“That’s better. Do you want me to get the car?”

“I’m not carrying her back. They’ll both go in the trunk-this one’s wet itself.”

He sounds decidedly displeased. She shakes her head-pain, so much pain-and tries to stand again. She’s barely propped herself up when the man adjusts his grip so that his hand is on Jon’s neck.

“Keep fighting, and I’ll snap his neck here and now. Hold still, and you might get him out of this unharmed.”

“You bastard.”

“True.” He cocks his head. “Your bad luck, though-it was either you or the teenage girl at the phone kiosk, and you were closer.”

She spits at him. He snorts.

“Look at you, fighting back! You’ll be a worthy one.”

“What do you want?”

“Mass fear, preferably, but I can’t do that without testing my new formula. Last thing I want is to have made Joker Gas by accident-ah. The car.”

Headlights wash over them. The trunk is popped and she and Jon are loaded into it. The woman ties a rough tourniquet around her leg, hands her a towel to hold against the wound, and slams the trunk shut.

“It’ll be okay, baby.” she whispers. “It’ll be okay.”

THE END


	27. Hurry Down the Chimney...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interestingly, my mum mentioned that the ‘hotel corpse’ happened to a friend of hers who works as a maid-recently, I understand. Guess it’s more common than you’d think!

Some people accuse Jonathan Crane of hating Christmas. And if one is going off of the ‘religious’ aspect, then yes. Yes, he does. But the more commercialized version, with Santa and candy canes and gift-getting, he likes that. If not quite for the same reasons as other people.

Oh, the general warm-fuzzies are the same. Kitty managed to coax him into getting a little tree (and then promptly found a pack of Batman-themed ornaments to hang on it), and providing they’re not in Arkham, they might even have a Christmas dinner. Which, seeing as they can’t cook, will probably consist of Chinese take-out. But the principle still stands.

The other thing about Christmas, though, is that it can so easily be ruined. Normally he restrains himself. So soon after Halloween, it’s cold…there’s no need to do anything grandiose.

He didn’t plan to do anything apart from maybe gas a Mall Santa. But then some _imbecile_ runs into him and proceeds to curse him out for ‘not watching where you’re going, you stupid prick!’

So he _has_ to follow him home and kidnap him out of his driveway.

“Really?”

“He has no manners. _He_ ran into _me_ -nearly knocked my glasses off, I’ll have you know-and proceeded to act as though it was my fault.”

“Mmph!”

“Be quiet.” He kicks the bag at his feet. “Do you see why this was necessary?”

“It’s Christmas, can’t you be nice? Just this once?”

“No.” She shakes her head and there’s a jingling noise. “What was that?”

“My earrings.” She flicks one. Bells-bright red bells. “I did some shopping. Got some things you might like.”

“Oh?”

“Or not.” She straightens out her scarf and promptly starts laughing. He picks it up and gives her a _look_.

“Really?”

The laughter turns to straight-up cackles and he musses up her hair. Stupid scarf… _Do Not Open ‘til X-Mas_ , indeed. Very funny.

“MMPH!”

But at least he has this.

* * *

Google says that his victim-forty-year-old James Wight-is married, two kids. Real family man, apparently.

Not for long.

Wight is a bit of a stocky man, though he’ll grant that most people are compared to him. Initially, Jonathan’s plan was to poison him and leave him outside with a Santa hat on, but once he gets the hat on his head…

Well. He’s creative. Always has been.

It’s not hard to find a Santa suit at this time of year, and if the one his men bring back is a little bloodstained, well…it’s red. No one will notice.

Getting him into the suit is harder than he thought it would be. There’s thrashing and kicking and eventually he has to recruit help. But in the end, he has a Santa, beard and all.

They drive to the man’s house. It’s in an older neighborhood, still clinging to the vestiges of respectability. He wonders how long that will last.

“Jonathan, what are you doing?”

“Santa is coming early.”

“What?”

He rubs his hands together with unabashed glee and stops the car in the alley behind the house.

“You’ll see.”

She rubs the bridge of her nose.

His men haul Wight out of the car and now comes the great challenge-getting him onto the roof.

He’s in luck-there’s a ladder against the side of the house. It takes some maneuvering, it’s true, but they manage to get him up there in the end.

“Are you regretting your rudeness yet?”

“Mm…”

“You will. You will. Briefly, before you either suffocate or die of fright.” He draws a little canvas case from his coat pocket. Inside are a fresh needle and a tiny bottle. “Know what these are?”

“Mm…”

He reaches over and moves Wight’s head up and down.

“That’s right! Your worst fears, all bottled up!” He fills the needle. “Prepare to wish your family a merry, merry Christmas, Mister Wight!”

“MM! MM!”

He tilts Wight’s head to the left and sticks the needle in his neck.

“There we go…take it all…excellent.” He steps back. “Shove him as far down as he’ll go.”

The men look at each other, shrug, and hoist Wight up. Jonathan climbs back down the ladder to join Kitty in the yard.

“Really?”

“I said Santa was coming early.”

“Not to us, he isn’t.” she informs him. “Come on, it’s cold.”

It is. And he wants to be home for the eleven o’ clock news. Something tells him it’s going to be very interesting indeed.

THE END


	28. The Roast is Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my parents, because they are wiseasses, took my request for a pincushion to the extreme and got me one shaped like St. Sebastian. Now every time I sew something, I’m reminded that my family has reserved parking in Hell.
> 
> This is all just shit luck for Judith-he wasn’t expecting a sitter, and was rather cross when he got one. At first, anyway.

Judith St. Claire has babysat a thousand times, easy. She’s watched her brothers, her cousins, the neighborhood kids…she is a _pro._

Not so much at reassuring nervous parents, though.

“It’ll be fine.” she says for the fiftieth time. “Really. I’ve got both your numbers and your mom’s, and my mom’s a block over.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.” She jiggles the baby in her arms. He babbles and paws at his mother’s necklace. “Isn’t that right, Sean? We’re gonna have a good time, aren’t we?”

“Okay…call us if you need _anything_ , okay?”

“I will.”

“Wave bye-bye to Mommy and Daddy!” She moves Sean’s hand up down. “Have fun!”

Finally, _finally_ , they leave. She locks the door behind them and heads into the kitchen, bouncing Sean a little bit.

“Let’s find a snack, huh? That sound fun? I think that sounds fun.”

She sets him in his high chair and starts looking for the popcorn they said she could have. Where is it, where is it-

**Thud!**

“Oh, Sean…”

In that grabby way of babies, he’s managed to knock over a bottle of water sitting on the table. She sighs and gets a towel to mop it up. At least there’s nothing it can ruin…

“Why did you do that, baby?” she groans. “Whatever…there.”

She drops the towel on a pile of others and wipes her fingers on her jeans. It’s water, it’ll dry.

There’s a crackling noise and she jumps, fingers flying for her phone, before realizing it’s the baby monitor. Mrs. Norrell mentioned it was spazzing, said to turn it off and turn it back on if it started up.

“Stay here.” Like he’s got a choice. “I’ll be riiight back.”

The monitor is in the other room, sitting on the coffee table. She searches for an ‘off’ switch, can’t find it, and pops the batteries out instead. After a minute, she puts them back and sets the monitor down. There. All fixed.

She returns to the kitchen, rubbing her fingers against her jeans. Feels like she got a bite…fucking mosquitos. It’s fall! They should be dead! But noo, the little vampires are still coming.

Sean babbles at her and she smiles back before resuming her hunt for popcorn. Where is it, Mrs. Norrell said it was right around here-there it is!

She pops it in the microwave and sits down at the table.

“Peek-a-boo!”

**Pop-pop-pop!**

He giggles and she tries it again.

“Peek-a-boo!”

**Pop-pop-pop!**

No giggle this time.

**_“Peek-a-boo!”_ **

She screams and flies out of the chair. Standing behind her is a man she’s seen on the news more than once-recently for an ‘escaped from Arkham’ bulletin.

“Scarecrow.”

He claps.

**_“Very good!”_ **

Before he can stop her, she hurls a glass pitcher at him, grabs Sean, and runs.

_Gotta hide gotta hide gotta get outta here_

She’s never been in this house, and she doesn’t know where anything is. As a result, she ends up in the bathroom rather than outside.

This turns out to be for the best-the bathroom has a frosted window, and when she looks out she can see a man with a gun.

_Stuck inside…think, Judith, think!_

**_“Where are you?”_ **

The bathroom door had been half-open when she came in, she remembers. She steps behind it and puts it back the way it was.

**_“You can’t leave, little girl!”_ **

No, but she can hide the baby, at least.

Sean gulps and she panics, bounces him up and down as quietly as possible.

“Sh-sh-sh…”

**_“Where, oh, where has my little dog gone…”_ **

He’s just outside the door. Judith prepares to kick and run, but-

-he doesn’t come in. He continues on through the house and a minute later she hears him go upstairs.

Okay. Okay. Hide the baby, then get somewhere to call the cops. She can do this.

The room is spinning a little and she makes her way back to the kitchen. There’s knives in there, at least.

Baby, baby…the oven. No one will ever look in there.

“Hush-hush, Sean, it’ll be okay.”

He grasps at her shirt and she tucks his little hands back against his sides before closing the door. There.

Knives, knives-knives! Big ones, nice and sharp.

She takes two and gets the hell out of the kitchen, away from Sean. Where is he, where has he already checked…the coat closet, maybe. She’ll hide there.

She pulls her phone out of her pocket and has just dialed **nine-one** when the door is yanked open and the phone is ripped from her hands.

**_“I found you!”_ **

She slashes with the knife and he dodges, grasps her wrist and hauls her up.

“No! No! Let go of me! Help!”

**_“It’s Gotham. There’s no help.”_ **

She grabs for the other knife and for a minute she thinks her fingers are too sweaty, but then she gets a grip and flails. She cuts his arm and he drops her immediately.

God, the room….why’s everything tilting…gotta run gotta run never mind the room!

**_“You’ll pay for that!”_ **

A chair hits her in the back and she stumbles forward, hitting her head on the oven.

**Beep-beep-beep!**

“Stay away from me!”

The Scarecrow, his arm bleeding,

_Good, you son of a bitch!_

advances on her and knocks the knife out of her hand with an umbrella.

 ** _“You little brat.”_** he rasps. The mask twists and morphs. **_“I wasn’t expecting you. But you’ll do all the same. Where is the baby?”_**

Tiny hands appear in the black eyes of his face and heft rotting bodies up and through, where they fall, writhing like maggots.

**_“Answer me!”_ **

He shakes her, banging her head against the oven.

**Beep-beep-beep!**

One of the maggot-people falls from his face to hers, its little hands latching onto her eyelids and yanking.

Judith screams.

THE END


	29. Taphobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is who I was after last time. They got a babysitter at the last minute and threw everything off. But no matter. I sometimes wonder about Mrs. Norrell…I should send her a sympathy card.-Dr. Crane

Jacob Norrell never makes it home from his son’s funeral. He doesn’t even, technically, make it out of the funeral-he stepped aside for a private moment and was seized from behind.

Now he’s sitting in a basement, restrained by two men the size of bears, looking at the monster responsible for his son’s…

Jonathan Crane looks a little the worse for wear, at least. His arm’s in a sling and he was moving slowly when he came down. Good. Fucking bastard, Sean was just a _baby_!

“Orderly Norrell. You have my sincere condolences for the death of your son. Sean, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t say his name!” he roars. Crane sighs.

“Grief is no excuse for ill manners. And I didn’t kill him. I had no idea what happened, until the news came on. Your babysitter put him there and proceeded to make it so that I had to leave before finding him.”

Jacob says nothing, just sits there and glares. He’ll get out of this, and he’ll rip Crane’s throat out and make him eat it!

“I have to ask, before we lay this unhappy subject to rest…” Crane takes a breath and leans forward. “Mister Jones _swears_ that baby tastes like prime rib. Does it smell like that when it’s cooking?”

He tears free and lunges forward. The men behind him haul him back and Richardson hits him in the stomach with a metal pipe.

“Do it again, and I go lower.” she threatens. Crane smirks.

“So volatile…you really aren’t a good fit for Arkham. Shame.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Mm-hm.” He stands up and stretches. “Let’s leave him, Kitty, he’s not going to be nice.”

“I could make him be nice.”

He’d like to see her try it.

“No, let him grieve. His time for that is limited anyway.”

Richardson shrugs and taps his knee-gently-with the pipe.

“Be good, sweetie. Parents have to set a good example.” He lunges at her again but she steps back, laughing. “So sensitive…c’mon, I want to look at that arm of yours.”

They leave, turning off the lights on their way out.

* * *

They come back down sometime later, laughing about something. How dare they laugh, they know what happened to Sean, what he and Mary came home to…god…

He doesn’t care, really, if he lives or dies. But if it’s the last thing he does, he’s going to get him and he’s going to kill him, do what Batman should’ve done years ago. Richardson too, if he can get to her, but he wants Crane’s head on his goddamn wall if he gets out of this.

“And how are we feeling?”

“Go fuck a garbage disposal.”

Crane raises an eyebrow.

“Is vulgarity a substitute for wit, I ask myself?” Jacob snarls. “Never mind. I wouldn’t expect you to understand…I confess, it took me quite some time to figure out what do with you.”

Really? Because he knows exactly what do with him if he can get to him-poetic justice. Might have to chop those skinny limbs off to get it to work, but still.

“And really, it is thanks to your charming child that I know!” Crane settles into his chair, fingers steepled in front of a terrible, mocking grin. “Don’t give me that look, I didn’t say his name, as per your request. Where was I…ah. I understand that despite coming home to find him with that golden crisp so sought-after on Thanksgiving turkeys, you insisted on _ensuring_ you weren’t going to bury him alive. How anybody could have survived that remains a mystery, but if one fears such a fate befalling them…” His grin grows wider. “Then everything makes sense.”

Jacob bares his teeth and Crane snorts.

“I’m not impressed. And you really should have seen a dentist recently…too late now. If you kind sirs would be so good as to place him in the coffin now…”

What.

He’s hefted from the chair and dragged backwards. His ankles strike something hard and he’s muscled into a coffin with his arms crossed over his chest.

“No! No! Let go of me, you sons of bitches! Crane! I’ll kill you, you hear me? I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Nail the lid down, please- _firmly_ , I don’t want…no. No, not quite firmly. Leave a corner loose.”

A piece of plain wood is lain over the top. He shoves at it, but somebody must be sitting on it-nothing happens.

“Let me out! Let me out right now! Crane!”

There’s a hammering sound and when he pushes at the lid again, the only part that moves is the top left corner. He focuses on that.

“When I get outta here, I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

“Bury him, gentlemen. Six feet deep, you know where.”

He pounds on the lid, eyes fixed on the loose corner. If he can just get one more nail out, just one…

The coffin is picked up carried somewhere. It’s hard to breathe and his heart is starting to go too fast for his liking.

_Do it for Sean. Get out of this for Sean._

Was that a nail giving? Maybe? If he could just get another inch of leverage, just one more inch…

The coffin sways gently and he feels weightless for a moment before it touches down. Then there’s the horrible, unmistakable sound of dirt hitting the lid.

He redoubles his efforts, desperate to get the lid off before there’s too much weight on it.

_No no no no no_

Dirt continues to rain down and Jacob continues to push, but now the loose corner isn’t moving. Soon enough, he can’t even hear the dirt falling.

“Somebody! Somebody help me! Please!”

It smells, smells of dirt and wood and his own sweat. He can’t breathe now, though he’s trying-his lungs refuse to expand and the weight, the weight of the earth above him is just too much.

“Please! I’m down here!”

His voice comes out as little more than a squeak this time and he swallows hard and tries again.

“Somebody!”

The coffin creaks. Jacob pushes desperately at the lid again and a bit of dirt falls in through the loose corner.

Nobody comes.

THE END


	30. Stuck Tight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so maybe two-seaters aren’t the best. Sure, there’s no lunatics in the back, but then there’s this sort of issue that comes up…oh, boy.

“Oh…oh…oh god, oh god…”

“Uhhh-AHH!”

Maria Watson lifted her head, more annoyed than anything. Men…selfish pricks, all of them…

“Why’d you stop?”

Clark Bailey moaned.

“My back…”

What?

“Get off.”

“I can’t move.”

Maria craned her head to see what the problem was. He looked fine. Selfish asshole…if she wanted a wham-bam-thank you ma’am, she’d be at home with her husband! God!

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I think I threw it out…this really hurts…this fucking car is too small!”

“You said you wanted to fuck in it!”

“I didn’t realize it was this small!”

“Yeah, well, midlife crisis cars are small. Get off me.”

“I can’t move, what part of that don’t you get?”

He really can’t move? She’s stuck here?

Christ, this is the most uncomfortable position she’s ever been in!

Maybe someone can get them out.

It takes a bit of flailing, but she manages to get her foot on the horn and presses down.

**HOOOOOOOOOONK!**

No one comes. Fucking Gotham, of course no one comes…she’ll be screening next time. No boy toys over a certain age, and no prior health problems. At least Mark’s out of town…

**HOOOOOOOOOONK!**

Hello? She’s stuck here, in the most awkward position of her life, with two hundred pounds of man on her! She could suffocate and die!

**HOOOOOOOOOONK!**

**BAM-BAM!**

She shrieks and tries to move. Clark gasps with pain.

“Don’t do that!”

“Shut up!” She twists her head back. “Who’s there?”

“Quit honking the horn!”

People! At last.

“We’re stuck!” she calls. “Can you get us out?”

The door opens and just as she’s thanking her lucky stars, it slams again.

“Get dressed! Were you born in a barn?”

What.

“It’s a long story, just please get us out!”

The man outside doesn’t answer her.

“Do you see, Kitty, why this is a terrible rite of passage?”

“We had a larger car, we would’ve been fine.” A woman’s voice. So at least two people.

What the hell is going on out there?

She honks the horn again and somebody outside kicks the car.

“Shut up!”

Not before they get off their prudish asses and get her out of here!

**HOOOOOOOOOONK!**

“They’re going to get Batman’s attention.” the man grumbles. “Of all the alleys they could’ve picked, they picked this one. Either you’re cursed or I am.”

“It’s you.”

Never mind! If they won’t get her out, Batman will.

**HOOOOOOOOOONK!**

The door flies open again and a small pill drops to the floor and begins to smoke. Before she can ask what the hell that is, the door slams.

“Really?”

“You didn’t see.” The man sounds traumatized. Probably a virgin. “I have seen things tonight…”

“Don’t be dramatic. Come on, before Bats shows up.”

“I’m not being dramatic! Kitty, I wasn’t expecting…”

His voice fades. They’re leaving? They’re just gonna leave her here? Really?

She tries to shove Clark off of her and gets a whiff of the smoke. Ugh, it’s bitter…

When she looks back at Clark, his eyes are bleeding and beetles are falling out of his mouth.

Maria screams. Clark screams too, and a beetle falls right into her mouth and scurries down her throat.

THE END


	31. Died of Fright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a few versions of this: some versions have a statue that’s responsible, others say she plunged a knife through her dress by mistake…it’s old. See if you can spot the Psycho reference!
> 
> Happy Halloween.

Grace Bennet took a sip of sparkling grape juice and scoffed.

“There’s a murdering clown in this city, and y’all are scared of a cemetery?”

Jack Jones shuddered.

“It’s Gotham’s oldest cemetery. It’s haunted. At least the Joker can be shot.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t stick.” she protested. “He was in _traction_ last year and now look at him!”

“Still.”

Mary Williams looped her arm through Jack’s and did the ‘guuurl’ head wobble.

“You’d go out there alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine.” She swiped a kitchen knife from the counter and handed it over hilt-first. “Plunge this into the grave of Solomon Grundy, so we can go in the morning and see that you were there.”

“Why him?”

“Because I said so.” Mary rested her head on Jack’s shoulder. “Go do it.”

“What’ll you give me?”

“Respect. And fifty bucks.”

“Done. Make it in fives, I’m short on small bills.”

* * *

Green Lawn Cemetery was small, but well-kept. It was also locked up tighter than Arkham…not that that was hard.

She hopped the fence, feeling a little guilty, but it wasn’t like she was here to desecrate a grave or anything awful. She was just here to earn respect and fifty bucks, and to prove a point: murder-clowns trumped old cemeteries any day.

Grundy, Grundy…come on, didn’t this thing have any kind of order? Or was everyone just shoved in somewhere?

Something crunched under her boot and she shone her phone down at it. Eww…dead crow. Maybe this place wasn’t so well-kept, after all.

She scraped feathers and blood off her shoe and continued in.

_Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday…_

**Shhhhhhh…**

She whirled, frantically hitting her phone buttons to get light, and saw nothing.

_Get it together, Grace, there’s no such things as ghosts._

She wrapped her coat tighter around herself and went back to grave-hunting. Most of these stones were old enough to be nearly illegible, the names and dates lost to the elements. Most, but not all- _Norma Bates_ was still there, as were _Goody Blaire_ and _Joseph Carmichael_.

_Christened on Tuesday, married on Wednesday…_

**Shhhhhhh…**

“This isn’t funny, Mary!”

But Mary wasn’t there.

**CAW!**

She’d put her foot down on another crow, but this one wasn’t quite dead-it was crippled, clearly, but still capable of cawing and trying to peck her.

She screamed and stepped back, earning a tree branch to the back for her troubles. What the hell? Maybe there was a cat around here…

_Took ill on Thursday, worse on Friday…_

**Shhhhhhh…**

An insect-walking stick or something-brushed against her cheek and she batted at it. Her fingers touched nothing, but the soft-itch feeling vanished.

Enough. Grundy’s grave, then home to practice her I-Told-You-So in the mirror.

The crippled crow cawed weakly from the ground and she decided to go another way.

Keeping her eyes peeled for any more birds, she picked her way through the graves, listening for any angry groundsmen or police. Or worse-Batman.

Though Batman would probably understand. He dressed up like a Furry-Ninja-Thing and beat criminals to a pulp, he had no right to judge.

_Died on Saturday, buried on Sunday, this is the end of Solomon Grundy._

**Shhhhhhh…**

The wind, that was all it was. That grave had to be around here somewhere, this place wasn’t that big…

The thin, clinking strains of a music box reached her ears and she made her way towards it.

_All around the cobbler’s bench, the monkey chased the weasel…_

What the hell… _Mary_. Oh, when she got her hands on her, she was gonna get such an ass-kicking…

_The monkey thought t’was all in fun…_

Mary’s little box led her to Grundy’s grave, anyway-the little thing was sitting right on top of it. She stuck the knife in it just as the music box stopped. Huh. Wasn’t it supposed to go-

**_“Pop goes the weasel!”_ **

She screamed as a man rose from behind the grave. She caught a glimpse of a burlap mask before he gripped her arm hard, bringing a vein to the surface, and slipped a needle under her skin.

Grace jerked her arm away, breaking the needle off in it, and began to run. The man behind the grave unfolded and came towards her, his pace as leisurely as an old man taking a Sunday stroll.

If she could just make it to the gate-where was the gate.

**Caw-caw!**

There was a crunch and she risked looking behind her. The man-the Scarecrow, she knew that mask-had a bird in his hands. It was still struggling, but its wings were at a _very_ awkward angle.

**_“I see you!”_ **

She ran, nearly tripping over gravestones on the way. Her vision was blurred and she couldn’t find the gate.

There! There it was, rising out of the fog, if she could just get to it-

The ground began to quake and she lost her balance, fell backwards and onto a gravestone. It toppled.

A skeletal hand, still wearing the rings it was buried in, clawed its way out of the dirt, grasping at the roots of a nearby tree. Grace thrashed and tried to get up, but her legs would not obey her.

_Get up, get up!_

**_“What do you see, little girl?”_ **

The hand pulled on the root, bringing the rest of its owner above the surface. The grinning skull turned towards her and began to shuffle forward, bones clacking as it moved.

**_“Tell me what you see!”_ **

A needled hand grasped her coat and yanked her off the gravestone. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to ignore the **click-clack** of the skeleton.

“Please…”

**_“Answer me!”_ **

“Make it go away!”

Another hand, sticky with blood, closed around her neck.

**_“What do you see!”_ **

Couldn’t he see it it was right there _right there_

The skeleton’s hand clawed at her ankle, boney fingers rubbing against her pants, and she tried to jerk away.

 ** _“What a waste.”_** She was dragged along the ground. The skeleton’s fingers slipped free, but she heard it following.

“Please!” She kicked out. “Please! Make it go away, I’ll do what you want, just-”

He dropped her. She tried to crawl away, but the skeleton grabbed her coat and refused to let go.

**_“Sweet dreams.”_ **

The skeleton moved over her, fingers already reaching to close around her throat.

THE END

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
